The Diplomat's Son
by Metropolis22786
Summary: Marc Duchaine is the son of the Canadian Ambassador to America. This is his story. Set preX1, and will incorporate elements of X2 and X3 as it goes. Some details taken from other formats.
1. Telepathy

_**This being the X-Men, Marvel own all. The idea of Marc Duchaine and his family as OCs are my own, however. This disclaimer applies to the whole story. Please read and review, and tell me if you think anything needs changing - this being my first fanfic and all!  
**_

_**-- Michael**_

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_**Ottawa, the near future.**_

_The Ottawa General Hospital maternity ward supervisor was a tall, spare man called Michael Dumas. His tie was gone, his collar loose, and his sleeves rolled up beyond the elbows. A half-empty mug of coffee dangled precariously from one hand. His shift was at an end for yet another long day of mixed joy and sorrow, for the mothers cradling their newborn infants, and the poor souls who had had to endure an intensive labour only to find their child was blue and still. Fortunately there had been none of those today. _

_He was still waiting for the night supervisor to show up and relieve him when a familiar face passed him, one that was etched in pain, supine on a gurney heading in the direction of the delivery room. Wheeling round, he followed the familiar face as he tried to force his way through the double doors that had swung shut after the gurney had passed through._

"_Marie? Marie Duchaine? What are you doing here?" he asked, knowing instantly that it was a stupid question, that-_

"_She's having a baby, Michael," said a laughing voice behind him. Dumas turned around. A man, slightly shorter than him, but still fairly tall, dressed in an expensive, well-tailored business suit stood in the doorway. He had jet-black hair, a clean-shaven, boyish face that radiated amusement. Marie's husband, Jacques Duchaine, was thirty-five years old, and a rising star in the Canadian Diplomatic Service. His good looks, coupled with the radiant charm and ability to put anyone at ease had tipped him for some of the more choice assignments available to diplomats. He would not be starting his career in the Sudan._

"_I can see she's having a baby, Jacques, old friend," he retorted good-naturedly. "Remember, I've been giving her check-ups for the last few months. I just didn't realise that it was so close to your due date."_

"_It's not," said Marie, through gritted teeth. "He's about three weeks early."_

"_But I thought you didn't want to know the baby's sex until it was born," said Michael._

"_Please, Michael, if a girl ever kicks this hard, then we should see more females in gridiron football," said Marie tartly, but with an edge of humour. Jacques smiled, moving to stand beside his wife. Her hand snaked out and grabbed his, and squeezed tightly. At that point, the night supervisor hurried through the door._

"_Michael, I'm so sorry, I got caught by someone in the car park," he said breathlessly. He quickly organised the team that would take care of Marie, and with that, Michael Dumas walked out of the delivery rooms, out of the maternity block, and out of the hospital, to the staff car park, where he got into his four-year-old Honda for the fifteen minute drive home. _

_He was met at the door by Charlie, his black Labrador, who enthusiastically tried to take out Michael's knees with his tail. Three small dog chews and a lot of ear-scratching later, Michael stretched out on the sofa with a TV remote, while Charlie occupied an easy chair with the last half of one of his chews. The news was on, and he caught the last half of a story about a teenage boy in America who had nearly killed one of his classmates by somehow firing beams of red light from his eyes. He was being kept in hospital for tests, while the other boy lay in intensive care, with serious head injuries. The boy who was able to fire these so-called "optic blasts" had bandages taped over his eyes, and had the look of a rabbit caught in the glare of a car's headlights._

_Michael flipped the TV off and sighed. He already knew what would happen. The poor kid would get called a mutant, terrorised by his local community and reviled, hated for something that was, essentially, not his fault. It was just sheer bad luck that his powers had manifested in just about the worse way possible. But then again, that was the American Way._

_If it had been Canada, the boy would have been incorporated into the Alpha Flight, a security organisation that was comprised solely of mutants. They were among the best security forces in the world, and much interest had been generated by the Canadian Government's apparent lack of fear of the "Mutant Menace" that was being peddled on television, especially the networks and shows funded or presented by right-wing politicians and citizens._

_Some other governments were looking into creating their own version of Alpha Flight. _

_In any case, there was nothing he, Michael Dumas, could do, was there?_

_The birth certificate of Marc Christopher Duchaine put his time of birth at 03.14am, July 25th. It was soon after the birth that another well-dressed man entered the Maternity ward, and handed Jacques a letter. It was an official letter from the Diplomatic Service, showing his next assignment to be Junior Ambassador to France, under Ambassador Julie Perrault. He had immediately informed the Service that he was now a father, and his departure was delayed by a few days, to make sure that little Marc was given the okay to fly. _

_The Duchaines were given their diplomatic passports at the airport, as they boarded an Air Canada flight bound for Charles De Gaulle Airport. Sitting in First Class, Marc only cried a few times on the six-hour flight, mostly during the takeoff. Some other passengers remarked on what a beautiful baby he was. Marie beamed._

_They were met by Ambassador Perrault herself, and she whisked them from the airport to the embassy in a back limousine with diplomatic licence plates. _

"_You'll just be starting out by going to the usual functions, parties hosted by politicians and media tycoons and everyone else." She smiled, looking at Marie. "I warn you, my dear, little Marc there will become a godsend after a few of the more boring parties. A muttered excuse of the both of you needing your sleep, or needing to change your son, or something like that will be your cast-iron excuse to get rid of the bores."_

Marc grew from thirteen days old to a sturdy four and a half while in France and his ear for the language was impressive. Never mind the fact that his parents were French-Canadians, his reading and writing ability was at least a year above his age. Even when the Service reassigned them to Germany, he continued to learn French at school, as well as German. His parents were teaching him English at home, and at the age of six, Marc was fairly fluent in all three languages. It was uncanny how he could pick up the language and master it. The tutors at the embassies were impressed by his command of the languages, and laughed on the occasions when he became too excited to stick to one language. Quite a few times in his first six years, his parents had to consult phrase books and dictionaries to try and work out what he said.

He was fairly popular at all the different schools he attended, being invited to other people's houses for birthday parties. However, it was at his third primary school in Germany when the trouble started. Two or three bigger boys found out that he was the son of the Canadian Ambassador. It started with the little pushes and shoves, which he ignored. One day, when the bullies ran past him, knocking him over and snatching his schoolbag, he jumped up, ran after them and punched one across the face. They dropped his bag and ran off, surprised that he'd fought back. Unfortunately, his mother had seen the incident.

Taking him back to the embassy, she told him that he was never to hit someone else, even if they had attacked first. He tried to defend himself.

"But they'd been doing stuff for weeks! Running into me, knocking me over. I thought that if they knew I hit back, then they'd leaved me alone!"

It cut no ice with his mother. She left him alone in his room for an hour for him to think on what he'd done. When the hour was up, his mother entered his bedroom with a white bundle over her arm. A stranger stood in the doorway behind her, his face and upper body hidden in the shadows.

"Here, put this on," she said. Marc took off his t-shirt, and pulled on a white cotton tunic. Trousers of the same material, and finally a white belt that was tied in a funny knot.

"What's this for?" he asked, puzzled.

"if you want to fight back, and make bullies leave you alone, then you need to know how to do it properly," said the strange man in the doorway. He entered the room, and as the light fell on his face, Marc recognised him as one of the security men at the embassy. "Every afternoon, after school, we will train together, and then you won't need to put up with people who try to hurt you."

And they did. From the age of seven, Marc trained with the man, who he knew only as Sensei. He proved as quick a learner of karate as he was with languages. He went through the first three grades in less than a year, and then he changed countries again. This time, it was Spain.

Having been taught English and French at home from a very young age, German from age four, and taking extra lessons in language studies and karate from the embassy personnel, Marc was ready for the challenge. He picked up Spanish as easily as he had the first three, and was soon talking like a native. It was around this point that his parents began noticing strange things about him. Just after he turned twelve, and just ready to start his new secondary school in Madrid, his father received word that he'd gotten the biggest career boost to date: Senior Ambassador to China.

"Yes!" he yelled, alone in the room he shared with Marie. Marc's room was next door. As he walked past, brimming with glee, thoughts running in the direction of the East, Marc shouted in Spanish, "Dad! Keep it down, I'm trying to concentrate!"

Jacques stopped dead, both his forward movement and his thoughts. "Thank you," came the relieved call from the other side of the door.

Jacques knocked on the door. "Marc? I didn't say anything. What do you mean, 'keep it down?'"

"Didn't you? But I thought you were yelling something about-" he stopped dead at the expression on his father's face. "-China. That's where we're going next, isn't it?" He tried a bright smile.

Jacques advanced cautiously into the room. "I opened the letter less than two minutes ago, Marc. How do you know about China?"

Marc refused to meet his father's eyes.

"Marc?" he asked, with more force.

"Because you were thinking it loudly. I couldn't block you out just now, and I was trying to get through this difficult passage."

"_Thinking_ loudly?" echoed Jacques incredulously. He suddenly realised what this could mean. He can read my mind any time he wants to-

"No, I don't read your minds all the time, dad," said Marc, still staring at the floor. He didn't seem to realise that he was confirming Jacques' suspicions. "To be honest, the chatter round here is driving me mad. I keep inside here for the most part." He tapped his head. "Dad? Are you mad at me?"

"No, Marc, of course not. Do you realise what this means? You being able to hear other people's voices in your head?"

"Yeah." His voice was glum. "It means I'm a telepath, a mutant."

"No! It means that you could be eligible for a trial with Alpha Flight."

"Huh. I think that's why I find learning stuff so easy, because I can listen to three times as much as what's being said, and it's done properly, too. Between you and me, Dad, when this started, I thought I was ready for a straitjacket, but then I remembered I have diplomatic immunity." He cracked a smile; despite the revelation, Jacques smiled too. "But then I figured out that the voices in my head sounded exactly the same as the spoken voices, and I began matching them up. Didn't take me long to crack some of my friend's best-kept secrets. I didn't do anything, Dad," he said, catching sight of Jacques disapproving frown. "It's like you always tell me, to have more information gives you the greater position of power. I just don't have the luxury of being able to use this information like you do. That's diplomatic."

"Yes, but then I deal with affairs of state, not playground rivalries."

_I'm not going to do anything with it, Dad. The crushes and petty arguments got on my nerves after a while. No-one's closed up at school, they're all leaking thoughts like sieves. _

_You don't have to, Marc, but I think I'll contact Ottawa and see if they can send a telepath to help you train with your ability._

_Thanks, Dad._

_Well, I can't change what is, so I might as well accept it with good grace. If anyone's to blame, it's me and your mother. After all, we did _create_ you. I mean, ahhh…_

_It's all right, Dad, I know about _that, and Marc snorted.

_Oh, okay then. Well._ Jacques recovered his poise. _In matters of DNA and genetics, there isn't really a lot that can be done. We are all products of circumstance, Marc, and we have to make the best of each chance we get._

Jacques exited the room, closing the door behind him, and resumed his walk to where Marie was, then stopped, eyes widening. Marc's door opened, and he poked his head round the door frame.

"Did I… Did we…?" asked Jacques, clearly not believing.

Marc nodded slowly. "We just had the last half of that conversation mentally," said the twelve-year-old telepath.


	2. Telekinesis

_**...So what I've done for this chapter is incorporate S.H.I.E.L.D. Remember, this is all X-Men, therefore, all Marvel, etc. Martha McGuiness is another one of my OCs. **_

_** ----------**_

_**China, the not-so-near future**_

It wasn't a member of Alpha Flight, or even a Canadian that was sent to help Marc, but a member of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Psy-Ops division, a vigorous seventy-year-old lady named Martha McGuiness, Irish by name, telekinetic and telepathic by nature, gentle by demeanour, and soon one of the most important people in thirteen-year-old Marc's life. She arrived at the embassy by taxi, dressed in a white blouse and black trousers, black low-heeled shoes and a black jacket, which covered her S.H.I.E.L.D. issue Taser.

Designed to drop an angry rhino at forty paces, the Taser fired two needles attached to flexible, current-conducting wires into someone. A 40,000 volt shock overloaded the nervous system, leaving the victim lying helpless on the floor, twitching. It was enough to take the fight out of nearly anyone, with the sole and dangerous exception of electrotechnic mutants, those who could crate, control and manipulate electricity. It was the best in non-lethal weaponry. Martha carried one out of habit, even though she never had need of it. Psychically, she was perfectly able to take care of herself. It was very rare that someone surprised her.

She had begun a conversation with Marc soon after she had landed at the airport, so he was well placed to meet her. She checked into a hotel five minutes from the Embassy, where she unpacked, showered, and had a light meal. Walking swiftly to the Embassy, she presented her S.H.I.E.L.D. badge, passport and Taser at the main desk, and was signed in. Marc was in the lobby to meet her.

_All this procedure. Anyone would think you've not told them I'm coming._

_They do know, but it's because you're carrying a weapon that you have to go through all the steps. _His mind's tone coloured into humour. _It also might have something to do with being Irish!_

_Cheeky boy! _She thought, flicking a humorous look at him as she signed.

He grinned. _Well, it wasn't all that long ago, was it? _

She slowed the pen, her thoughts moving from laughing to pensive. _No, I suppose not,_ she thought, with a tinge of sadness. He caught the thought before she could stop it.

_Your nephew?_

_What? Oh, yes, it was my nephew. He was killed in an attack in London some years back. They never prosecuted anyone for it. He was training to be a doctor. _

_I'm sorry._

She straightened up, retrieving her items from the man at the desk, then took the laminated security pass from the guard who held it out. Slipping the cord round her neck, she headed over to where he was sitting reading the cartoons, trying to figure out the Mandarin symbols. "Don't be," she said in a soft voice, a lilting Irish brogue. "I'll find them, and when I do, they'll wish they'd never heard of the term 'collateral damage'."

They walked up to Marc's room, and he introduced her to his parents. Marie offered refreshments while Jacques asked questions.

"What will his training be like?" he asked, sipping a steaming mug of coffee.

"Well, primarily, it will be about teaching him control over his gift, and moving on from there. I must first determine his range of telepathy, and the strength, and so on. After forty years of training telepaths, I think you'll find he's in safe hands." She smiled gently, cupping her mug of tea in both hands. "There isn't really any kind of examination at the end of the training, one where we can say, 'Oh, you scored forty per cent, I'm sorry but you mustn't use your telepathy.' It doesn't work like that. I train according to the principle of control of the gift, not active use.. I've had all sorts come to me. People who thought they were going mad from all the voices in their heads. Most of the people I've trained have been patients at mental wards at one point or another. I now make a point of going round some mental wards six times a year to try and find more telepaths. Most of the poor souls can't keep their thoughts in, let alone anyone else's out."

"I've been able to block people since I started hearing their thoughts," said Marc, determined to impress his new tutor. She turned to stare at him, one eyebrow raised, sending a firm mental probe.

He felt a slight nudge on his mental shields. He tightened them, blocking her out completely. She looked slightly surprised.

"Well, if anything, I'm going to have to teach you how to reach out, not to block." She turned to Jacques and Marie, who were sitting on the sofa with a slightly worried air about them. "I think that Marc's already got all the control he needs, and now he needs to know about filtering thoughts and allowing other people into his head."

"Marc… Why didn't you tell me?" asked Marie.

"I thought you'd be angry," he said, eyes at the floor.

She rose and walked over to him, and enfolded him in a warm hug. He hugged her back, and she said, "I could never be angry about a gift like this. You are still our son, and we love you unconditionally."

"It's nice to see that not all people throw their kids out when they discover they're mutants," Martha observed. She folded her hands in her lap.

"You mean… people still do that?" asked Jacques, shocked.

Martha snorted. "Close to three quarters of the people I've trained or come into contact with who are mutants have been either disowned, cut out of wills, or been frozen out of families for basically evolving."

"That's despicable," breathed Marie, still holding Marc.

"That's life, Madame Duchaine," she said, with a shrug. "If people would rather put their narrow-minded religious views before their family, then that is their choice. I personally do not believe in the Almighty, but if He does exist, He's going to have a lot of supposed 'believers' wondering why they didn't get into Heaven. I also think that He must have a well-developed sense of irony." She grimaced. "On more than one occasion, I've been tempted to go and 'adjust' some parents' thinking, seeing the anguish their children have gone through, because the parents are scared God will punish them for bringing a mutant into the world. I've never done it, of course," she added, catching the looks of both elder Duchaines. "That would be betraying the basic trust of most of humanity. Besides," she added, "I could never do something like that, and have it on my conscience."

The Duchaines left the meeting considerably relieved, and Marc began his first lesson.

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"Hmm…. Okay," said Martha, twenty minutes in. "Now, I want you to lower your shields completely."

"Completely? But that'll mean I'd get bombarded!" said Marc. "It was difficult enough just letting you in, how will I relax them enough?"

"What's your favourite CD?" she asked.

"Err… I'll go and get it," he said. He returned in less than a minute, carrying a slim jewel case. Opening it, he put the CD into the small tabletop CD player and turned it on, the volume low. The piano intro to "New Born" filled the room. Martha picked up the case in surprise.

"Muse? How appropriate," she muttered. Marc was humming along to the melody. "Okay, I want you to relax completely," she said. "Stretch out on the sofa if you need to, but you need to be as relaxed as possible."

He lay down on the sofa, hands across his chest, and closed his eyes. The music flowed. Watching him, Martha could feel his shields slowly lowering, layer by layer, although he was still filtering the thoughts of everyone around him. She slipped into his mind, watching as he lowered the final shield, and then 'spoke'.

_That's good, but you're still filtering. You're now wide open, but I can't see how far your telepathy reaches if you filter anyone who thinks._

_But I don't know how to not filter!_ He cried mentally, starting to bring his shields up again.

_No! Relax, I'm here with you, I can block anything that might get through. Now,_ she said, softening her mental tone, _show me these filters of yours._

He 'showed' her the filters, and she examined them for a second, marvelling. _And you've never met another telepath? _

_No, why?_

_Because I'd expect filters like this on a telepath who has mastered his gifts, not on someone who I only met three quarters of an hour ago, and who has had no formal training in telepathy._

She examined them for another minute, then withdrew. Her thoughts moved fast as she worked out the best way to help the bright young man.

"This is going to take some serious effort on your part, but I'm confident that in three month's time, I can have you ready for a small test."

------------------------------------------

She was as good as her word. In between studying Mandarin, karate, school, a new-found passion for ice hockey, and using his first computer, Marc was instructed in shielding, filtering, memorising and recognising people by their thoughts alone, and communicating over long distances. He also discovered he was telekinetic.

A crash of breaking china alerted his parents and Martha to an incident in his room. Being telepathic, she knew immediately what had happened and smiled, nodding to herself. They found Marc, red-faced, pointing at the pieces of a broken plate that lay along one wall.

"I moved it!" he said excitedly. "I thought about moving it through the air, and then it started hovering!"

"So why is it broken?" asked Marie, relieved to see that it was a regular side plate and not one of the very expensive decorative plates.

"Um… I don't know," said Marc, dropping his arm. "I guess I lost control."

"And learning control of this is going to be your next job, young man," said Martha, surveying the remains of the plate with a smile playing on her face. "Now, see if you can do as good a job of cleaning up as you did making the mess." She smiled at him encouragingly.

He turned back to the remains of the plate, and bit his lip. Slowly, with a lot of wobbling, the large sections of the plate rose in the air, and stacked themselves on the desk, next to the wastepaper basket. The smaller pieces followed, and finally small ceramic slivers levitated and fell into the bin with a small sound.

"The slivers weren't important to your next task anyway," said Martha, coming into the room and seating herself of the edge of his bed. "Have you a small bottle of superglue?"

"Somewhere, I think," he said. He started rummaging through his desk drawers, finally producing a half-full bottle. Placing it on the desk next to the shattered plate, he turned to Martha expectantly.

"Well, fix it then," she said, gesturing at the pieces and the bottle.

He reached for them, but was stopped by a gesture from Martha. "Telekinetically," she said.

"Oh." He looked at the pile of ceramic, considering. Two pieces rose slowly into the air, less wobbly than before but still slightly unstable. The bottle cap slowly unscrewed itself, then the bottle wobbled into the air, tipping slightly to leave a thin smear of glue along one edge. The two pieces then floated closer to each other, closer, closer…

…and met.

"Now hold it there for two minutes and give the glue a chance to set," said Martha softly.

"But it'll drop in a second," said Marc worriedly. The wobble on the plate started to get worse.

"No it won't, not if you concentrate. Put the glue down if you need to, but hold the two pieces together tightly."

The glue bottle floated to the table, and the plate steadied. It became motionless, as a thin film of sweat broke out on Marc's forehead.

"Good work," said Martha approvingly. "Now, let's see if you can completely fix it."

It took the better part of an hour, kinetically fitting all the pieces together to complete the plate, but after the final piece had been set in place there were no visible cracks to be seen. He finally put the plate down with a tiny clatter, and fell onto his bed, exhausted. Martha smiled.

"I'll bring along some other bits and pieces tomorrow which I want you to deconstruct and reconstruct for me," she said. He nodded slightly. "I'll also be holding a general knowledge quiz at the same time, to get you used to multi-tasking. Then we'll go for a walk and see how well you speak and read Mandarin." He nodded again, too tired to talk. She made her way out of his room and went to see Jacques and Marie.

"How is he?" asked Marie.

"Very tired, as he isn't used to using telekinesis for long periods, although I hope to be able to increase his endurance and dexterity over time. Some of the more powerful telekinetics I know can hold up a car, and completely strip it without using a single tool."

Jacques whistled. "That's impressive. What did he do that tired him out so?"

Martha summoned the plate from Marc's room. It floated just in front of Jacques' face, and he inspected it, surprised.

"This is the plate, all right, but I can't see any cracks or anything. And he fixed that? All by himself?"

"There were a few moments where I thought I might have to step in and steady it for him, but I didn't need to. He can be very stubborn when he's trying to prove something to someone." Pride suffused her voice. "I was very impressed."

"Yes, he's impressed us both, countless times," said Marie.

"Let us hope he doesn't feel like stopping anytime soon," said Jacques.


	3. The Metamorph

**_Washington DC, USA _**

_**Three Years Later.**_

Marc was nearly sixteen when he moved countries again, this time to the United States of America. His father Jacques, a distinguished-looking fifty years old, was looking forward to the last five years of his career close to home, in an easy post with very little potential conflict. Marie was looking forward to being able to take shorter flights to see her parents and friends in Ottawa and Montreal, and Marc was looking forward to going to his first ice hockey match. He settled into high school with minimal problems, quickly gaining a group of friends. He didn't tell anyone about his telepathy or telekinesis, and was careful only to practice them at the Embassy away from prying eyes.

He had been told that the Friends of Humanity were very much active on Capitol Hill, and had garnered much support, especially from right-wing conservatives and religious fundamentalists. To reveal himself as a mutant would undo all the work he had accomplished to be accepted at school, as well as harm his father's position in the Diplomatic Service. Marc was fully aware of the politics of the Service, and realised that America was a 'sending-off' post, one given to diplomats after a long period of dedicated service as a reward.

Some of the younger members of the Friends went to his school. A few were in his class. Listening to them sound of in a Philosophy class once, Mark felt compelled to take the opposite side. Ms. Lee, the Chinese-American teacher, happily let him.

"So you're saying that people who are telepathic are the biggest danger to humanity? Why telepaths? Why not religious fundamentalists?"

"Because they can read people's minds and control them," said one of the girls.

"And why would they want to?"

"Because that's what mutants do, dumbass," said another girl.

"Perhaps I should rephrase that," he said, his face darkening. "I meant, what use could they possibly have for an empty-headed wannabe like you? Because I don't think there's anything in there to control."

She went pink. One of the boys, a hard-faced character by the name of Luke Sims, jumped to her defence. "The Bible says that they're abominations."

Incredulous, Marc turned to him. "What?"

"The Bible says they're abominations. My dad says."

"And where did he get that from? I didn't know the Friends of Humanity had their own translation of the Bible."

"Actually, he's the Catholic priest for one of the largest churches in Washington."

Marc's temper snapped. He hated religious dogma, especially incorrect dogma. "The Bible says the exact opposite. Go home and read it, and open your mind. Not everything in the world is contained in those sixty-six books. What happened to 'Love thy Neighbour'? What happened to 'Judge not, lest thee be judged'?" If you find me a passage in any official translation of the Bible that says "Mutants are an abomination", I'll happily retract the point. Last I checked, Christianity was a religion of love, not something to bash minorities with." He ended with a colourful description of the boy's parents and their marital status in Mandarin. Ms. Lee looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Sorry, Ms. Lee," he said, in Mandarin. "I just hate close-minded idiots."

"No problem," she replied, in the same language. She wore an angry expression, and the class got the impression she was telling him off. "To be honest, they're getting on my nerves with the whole "God" thing. Alright, class," she called in English, as the bell rang and chairs started scraping on the floor. "Assignments for Monday: Five hundred words on your position on the issue of mutant rights. For or against, it doesn't matter, but please try and strike a balance. Class dismissed."

He was joined outside by his best friend, St. John Allerdyce, an average-looking kid who had his locker next to Marc's. He had brown eyes and slicked-back brown hair, and a cocky attitude that bordered on insolent. He didn't seem to be afraid of anything, and he had a wicked sense of humour. He also had a fiery temper, and when he got angry or hyper, the latter much more often, Marc was the one person who had the ability to calm him down. Marc put it down to his parents training in diplomacy and conflict resolution. He was the first person who talked to Marc when he had started, and finding that he had the same sense of the absurd they had become fast, close friends. Marc didn't know much about John's family situation, but he gathered enough to know that calling it a broken home was being very charitable. He was cracking open a can of soda when Marc opened his locker and started rummaging through.

"Man, usually it's me that says something like that in that class," said John, taking a long gulp of Coke. He was already playing with a cheap plastic lighter, one that he always seemed to have. It was funny, because he didn't smoke. At least, that was the only reason that Marc could come up with.

Marc snorted. "I get pissed off when I see the Bible being used as a weapon instead of a guide. Prats like that are not helping America's world image."

"And what was all that Chinese at the end of the class?"

"The language is Mandarin. You forgot, I spent three years in China with the Embassy, and I picked up quite a lot of the language. As for the statement, I called him an illegitimate inbred bastard son of a whore."

John laughed.

"You _what!_" came a furious voice behind him. Marc didn't turn round. Being telepathic, he knew that Luke Sims was behind him, and had pitched his voice to carry.

"Oh, it's the advance God Squad," said Marc contemptuously to John. He laughed again.

"I _said_, what did you call me?" asked Sims, in a dangerously quiet voice.

"I called you an illegitimate inbred bastard son of a whore."

Marc caught the flicker of thought a second before Sims' fist lashed out, a sucker punch that would have knocked him cold. Marc's hands flew up and caught the fist before it could connect. Twisting his body to guard against kicks, he just held on to Sims' fist and wrist, staring at him darkly. Sims started to pull back, but Marc didn't let go. He just held on, silently, while Sims cursed and yelled, tugging on Marc's grip, until Marc suddenly let him go, watching Sims go crashing into the lockers on the other side of the corridor.

"What's going on here?" asked a teacher, hearing the crash. She registered the loose circle of students, Sims on his back across the hall, and Marc staring at him menacingly.

"All right, who started it?" she asked, resigned.

"He did, Miss," said John, pointing at Sims. He had stood up and was advancing again on Marc when he stopped, as though he had run into a brick wall. Marc's eyes flashed. Sims' mouth dropped open, and he said, "Mutant lover, you're a goddamned mutant freak lover…!"

"Actually, I'm a second grade black belt in Karate, which is what I used to stop the punch you tried to throw. I'm not a mutant lover." He turned back to his locker and pulled out some books. "Everyone here will confirm that he started the fight."

"Only because you called me a bastard inbred!"

"And that's a bad habit, listening in on other people's conversations."

It was in detention with Sims in which his secondary mutation occurred. He was writing up his paper for Ms. Lee when he felt an odd sensation in his left hand. He put his pen down and scratched at it. The feeling subsided. He picked up his pen and continued to write. Five minutes later, the feeling spread all up his left arm, along his shoulder, down his back, and through his body. He put his pen down again, feeling a cold shiver run down his back. The feeling reached a kind of crescendo, and-

-when he looked at his hands, _they weren't his._

_They were Martha's_.

He'd been thinking about her on and off for the past few weeks, ever since she'd gone back to Ireland and the S.H.I.E.L.D. Psy-Ops training facility, with the Duchaine's heartfelt thanks. Now, the hands that met his much poorer eyesight were lined, wrinkled and knuckly. He thought of himself, and felt the sensation begin again, this time from the centre out. His eyes focused, and he looked at his hands, immensely relieved to see them again.

_He could assume the bodies of other people._

He dared not try out his new power anywhere in the school grounds – and there was a junior member of the most militant anti-mutant group sitting three desks away. He just hoped that he could control this as easily as he could his telepathy and telekinesis. even as he thought about what he'd tell his parents, he felt the sensation begin again, and he shut his eyes, not wanting to see what happened. When it stopped, he opened his eyes-

-and was met by the horrified look on the face of Sims.

In that moment, Marc broke every single rule of telepathy drilled into him by Martha McGuiness. He seized control of Sims' mind, and saw himself – a cross between his father and mother in one body. Splitting his concentration in two, he returned to his body and reversed the last change, and then erased the entire episode from Sims' memory. To be safe, he also erased the last ten minutes of the detention in case Sims had seen anything before that. Leaving his mind, Marc returned to himself, and carried on writing as though nothing had happened. He disciplined his mind, following exercises he had learnt, and the rest of the detention passed uneventfully.

He was shaking when he walked out of the detention fifteen minutes later. Pulling his hood up, he walked slowly back to the embassy, trying to think of how he was going to break the news that he was a Metamorph to his parents. They had accepted without question his telepathic and kinetic abilities, but he wasn't sure how they'd react to having a shapeshifter in such close quarters. He decided an honest approach would be best.

"Mom," he called, as he went into the bedroom and dropped his bag on the desk. "I need to talk to you."

"What is it, dear?" she asked, entering the room.

"I need to talk to you and Dad together, about something that happened at school. I think I may have a secondary mutation that manifested."

"What kind of mutation?" asked Marie, now fifty, and looking twenty years younger.

He thought of his father, the man he had grown up respecting, and felt the now-familiar sensation start to spread. This time, he felt his clothes change too. When he answered, it was in his father's voice. "This kind. I'm a metamorph."

Marie's hand flew to her mouth, and she groped for something solid to lean on. Seeing her son turn into her husband before her eyes was the last thing she was expecting. She had gotten used to seeing random objects levitating and floating majestically towards her when she asked over the last three years. Marc used it as a training method. This, however, completely threw her. At that point, Jacques walked in.

He saw a strange man in the private suite with his wife, and naturally assumed that the person was an intruder. It was only when the man turned round and Jacques saw his face that he realised that _he was staring at himself._

The figure suddenly shrunk, the grey hair turning blond, the beard disappearing the clothes changing, and there stood Marc, a guilty expression on his face. Jacques stared for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"_Mon Dieu_, Marc, you poor boy, it's just one thing after another, isn't it?"


	4. Leaving

**Author's Note: Thank you to ****Independent Fire for the only review I have. I'm updating this just for the hell of it. I kind of got the impression that no-one wanted to read this, but then I looked at my Stats. Please review, and tell me what you think. Thank you in advance.**_**  
**_

_**Washington, America.**_

_**The day after.**_

Marc didn't go to school for the rest of the week. He stayed in his room, trying to learn control for his new ability. He only emerged at infrequent intervals to eat and to use the bathroom. His father had again contacted Ottawa, to ask if there were any registered metamorphs that could train his son. Unfortunately, there were none registered with the Alpha Flight, or anywhere else that kept records. Officially, he was the first recorded in a new category. John came to see him after school on the third day.

"You don't look sick to me," he said, knocking on the door and entering the room.

"It's not something visible," said Marc, swinging round. A book dropped unnoticed to the bed. "I'm probably coming back next week. It's something that… snuck upon me and surprised me. I never usually get ill."

"Yeah, well, I came to tell you that you won't see me round there any more. I'm moving schools starting Monday. It's a boarding school upstate, in Westchester County." He looked sideways at Marc. "It's a school for mutants."

"Mutants? You mean you're…"

"Yep, I'm a mutant. A pyrotechnic."

Marc was momentarily confused. Then understanding dawned. "Oh, a fire-controller. Is that why you're always playing with those disposable lighters?"

"Yeah, here, I'll show you," he said, pulling one from his pocket and flicking it-

-And Marc mentally snatched it from his hand, shutting it down.

"Don't, you idiot!" he said, in a low, urgent voice. "You'll set the fire alarm off!"

Then he saw the lighter hovering midway between him and John. So did John. Their eyes met.

"And you're a telekinetic," he said slowly, a grin breaking out on his face. "Any other surprises I should know about?"

Marc was furious with himself. He had just revealed his secret to someone outside the embassy, and even though John had revealed his own abilities less than ten seconds before, he was still annoyed at his lack of self-control.

_I'm also a telepath,_ he thought, and saw John twitch, looking for the voice.

"Nice," said John. "I think you'd like to meet Dr. Jean Grey. She's one of the teachers at the Institute, and she's a telepath and telekinetic, too."

_All or nothing, Marc,_ he thought, and said, "But I bet she can't do this."

So saying, he switched into John's body, wearing exactly the same clothes. Losing control of the lighter, Marc reached out and caught it as it began to fall. The look of shock on his face was so comical that Marc burst out laughing.

"A metamorph," he said, wonderingly.

Marc felt a thrill run up his arm as he held the lighter in his hand. He instinctively knew that he now had John's ability. He tried levitating the lighter in his hand, but he couldn't move it.

"I want to try something. I think…" He quickly shifted back to his body, then dragged a protesting John out of the Embassy and to the nearest park. There was a section of dense woodland with a clearing that Marc knew of, and he dragged John all the way there.

He let go as they stood facing each other in the middle of the clearing. "Pass me that lighter again," said Marc, as he again shifted into John's body.

John did, and as he caught the lighter, he felt the same thrill run up his arm. Flicking the lighter, he cupped the small flame in his hand, and felt it grow, felt it move… felt it _live_. He manipulated the flame into a small bird, a running cat, a leaping dolphin… and then John called the flame to him. Relinquishing control, he watched the small dolphin 'swim' to John, then gasped as it grew in size and became a blazing copy of himself.

Shifting back again, he stared in awe as the flame copied every movement of John. Then, with a sputter, the flame disappeared. John smiled ruefully. "Still working on my control," he said. "You handled that pretty well for a beginner."

"Hell, that's all I've been doing for the past three days. I didn't know I was a shapeshifter until the detention I had to do with Sims. It manifested while he was looking at me. I had to wipe it from his mind, or I'd be looking at a Friends of Humanity lynch mob. He thinks that the detention went too fast, but that's only because he doesn't remember the ten minutes which I erased."

John laughed. "Come on, lets go to the mall. I need a sugar boost."

"Uhh, are you sure that's wise? I mean I know what you're like after you've had sugar, or caffeine, or both."

"Hey, that's not fair! I'm fine! I just get a little excitable," he said, faking a wounded look. "I'm going anyway, so I'll see you around if you're not coming."

"Of course I'm coming, stupid, someone's gotta be the victim of your jokes when you get hyper."

The walked along the streets, stopping to get large Cokes and a large bag of M&M's for John. They were laughing, each telling progressively worse jokes, when they ran into Luke Sims and a group of his friends. They tried to move away, but Sims' friends had them surrounded and outnumbered.

"Hey John, I heard you're moving schools. That have anything to do with the fact you're a mutie freak?"

_What did you do?_

John didn't have any telepathic ability, but Marc caught the stream of consciousness all the same. _I blew up a cigarette he lit after he snatched the lighter off me. He didn't take it too well._

_You're impossible, you know that?_

_Would you really have me any other way?_

"Hey, punk, I asked a question."

John and Marc shared a look, and Marc said _Wind him up as much as possible. Don't forget, we're both Homo Superior, and if it comes down to it, we can take him._

John nodded to Sims' comment, and to Marc's suggestion. He absently pulled a lighter from his pocket, and began playing with the lid. It was a big Zippo lighter, with a shark's mouth design along the edge of the lid. It clicked and snapped annoyingly as he flipped it open and closed. "Yep, it would happen to be because I'm a mutant, or _Homo Superior,_" he said, leaning on the last two words. Marc folded his arms, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Sims got the message.

"And because you have some kind of _freak power_, you think you're so much smarter than us, do you?"

"No," replied John, still playing with the lighter. "I _know_ I am." He glared up at Sims, an insolent expression on his face.

Sims stepped in close. "Listen, freak, I'm going to pound you flat for that." He drew his fist back, and drove it forward into John's face. Marc's face hardened, and he formed a mental barrier between Sims' fist and John's face.

There was an awful crack, and Sims screamed in pain, his knuckles suddenly bright crimson with blood, and his hand hanging at an odd angle from his arm. John just stood there, a smile blossoming on his face.

"My wrist, you broke my damn _wrist_!" he shouted.

_Actually, that was me. If you're going to fight someone, make sure they're your own size,_ said Marc. In that instant, he shifted into Sims' form, and took a moment to accustom himself to the extra forty pounds.

"Good God, I think my IQ just dropped fifty points," he muttered to John. John burst out laughing, just as the others crowded in to take a shot at him. Marc stepped into their path and glowered at them. John surreptitiously pulled the flame from the lighter and held it in the palm of his hand, eyes closed, concentrating, waiting.

"Don't," he warned. "We're better, faster, and _far_ more powerful than you. Forget about this, and just go home."

"You just wait until the Friends of Humanity hear about this!" shouted one of the boys. "They'll get you for this!"

"What, for self-defence against an aggressive attack?" He shifted back. "Forget about this little episode, and I won't mention it to the police. There are any number of innocent ways in which someone can break their wrist. Get him to the hospital, and get that fixed. And remember," he added, his voice turning threatening, "If you say a word to anyone, I'll come and find you. I've been a telepath longer than a metamorph, so I know more tricks for the mind." They turned around and walked off.

"But what if they do send the Friends after you?" asked John, a rare note of concern in his voice.

"If they do, I'll plead ignorance, and cloud their minds until I can get away. I can also change my appearance, so I could walk into a crowd as me, and walk out of the crowd as someone completely different. Relax. The only thing I can't claim is diplomatic immunity, as being a mutant isn't a crime."

"Yet," said John. "There's a Bill before the Senate at the moment requiring all mutants to register themselves with the authorities, like their name, address, and power or powers. Special cases like anti-human mutants will be restricted, and things like that. This is all stuff I've heard ever since I started paying attention to the news, especially anti-mutant news."

They'd carried on walking, and reached the Embassy as John finished his Coke.

"Well, If I don't see you over the weekend, this is it," said John. He threw the empty cup into a nearby trashcan.

"Oh, I'm sure I'll see you, John. What was the name of that place you're going to? Mutant High?"

He grinned. "The Xavier Institute for Gifted Children," he replied. "If you want, I'll mention your metamorph to Professor Xavier and see if he can help you. I'm moving up there tomorrow, so I'll have a word first thing."  
"Cheers mate," said Marc warmly. He headed into the Embassy, through the main area and into the residential section. Walking through the main lounge, he saw his mother talking to two strange people. One was a short black woman with long white hair and blue eyes, the other a tall redhead with brown eyes. As soon as he looked into those eyes, he knew that she too was a telepath. They both wore long black trenchcoats with a stylized X within a circle on the breast pocket and collars. He advanced cautiously into the room, doing a brief mind scan of his mother's mind. Their names and where they were from burned brightly in his mother's neurons.

"Hello, Marc," said the redhead. "My name's-"

"Dr. Jean Grey," he finished, and was rewarded with a bright smile from the black woman.

Her eyes narrowed. "And I'd have known if you did that telepathically, young man. How did you know?"

"Mom was thinking your names and you match the description a friend gave me."

She frowned. "And who would that be?"

"Pyro. I mean, John."

"Oh, yes, St. John Allerdyce," she said. "He's moving in tomorrow, isn't he?"

"Yes," said the other woman. "My name's Ororo Munroe and we represent the Xavier Institute for Gifted Children. But then if you've talked to John, you already know it's a school for mutants. Your mother was just telling us about a secondary mutation which you've experienced recently. However, she didn't tell us what it was. Can you tell us?"

"It'd be better if I showed you," he said. He started shifting and a second later there were two Jean Greys in the room. The real Jean took a step back, muttering, "My God, a metamorph."

Ororo looked shocked. "He's just like Mystique, isn't he?"

"Who?" he asked, shifting back.

"She's a metamorph, like you, who disappeared some time ago from the Institute. As far as anyone knew, she was the only one that existed."

Marc knew what was coming. He spoke to Jean telepathically. _If you're worried that I'm her, there's nothing to fear. I didn't know I could shapeshift until three days ago._

_It's OK,_ she replied. _She never had any telepathy that we could discover. It was just a shock to see someone who could do that again. _She visibly pulled herself together. _Get your things together, we're leaving in a few minutes. I've persuaded your parents to let you come to the Institute, and in light of the increase in Friends of Humanity attacks recently, they feel it's advisable for you to leave, even for a short while._ She shifted back to audible speech. "There's nothing to fear about the Institute, and Professor Xavier's the person who trained Mystique in her abilities, so he can help you learn control. He can also build on what your telepathy tutor started."

"Pack some clothes, Marc, and your laptop," said his mother, smiling at him. Even though she seemed happy, Marc could see the worry lines on her face. Jean's thoughts were running on the same track.

"There's really nothing for you to be scared of, Madame Duchaine. Marc will be safe and well cared for, and he'll be interacting with other children of his age. He'll be in no danger."

Marc practically raced for his room and started packing with the ease of long practice. He had his clothes, shoes and toiletries in a bag and his laptop packed away in less than ten minutes. He took down three of his favourite posters and rolled them up inside a rigid cardboard tube, and laid the tube next to his bag. He then removed an ice hockey stick from its mounting on the wall and zipped it into the case which held his regular one. Five minutes later, the bags were loaded into the boot of the four-seater convertible outside the Embassy, and he was saying goodbye to his mother. Jacques was at a meeting with the President, and so didn't see his son leave. Jean had telepathically contacted him and arranged everything. He was sorry to know that his son would be leaving without saying goodbye, but just as the meeting came to an end, he felt Marc contact him telepathically.

_I'm sorry I didn't get to say goodbye, Marc._

_Dad, affairs of state come first, that's what you've always told me, right? _There was amusement in his tone. _Anyway, I can talk to you from anywhere like this. I'll phone you tonight. Be safe._

_And you, Marc. And you._


	5. Meeting the Inmates

**_Washington to New York, NY State._**

_**That night.**_

Jean's thoughts were tightly shielded, but they still intruded constantly into Marc's mind in the five-hour drive from Washington to the Institute in upstate New York. Niggling little thoughts about anything and everything. Eventually, with a sigh, he threw up his mental shields with such force that Jean swerved slightly. She regained control immediately, then turned to look at him.

"Are you all right?" she asked, concerned.

"Just peachy," he answered. He tapped his head. "What about you?"

She attempted a smile. "Oh, just a little worried. I have an appearance in front of the Senate in a few days time dealing with the Mutant Registration Bill. The leading Senator in favour, Senator Kelly, is going to be handling the questioning. I'm doing it because of all my work with mutants makes me the authority on them." She snorted.

"Kelly? I've met him," said Marc. "He invited my dad over to schmooze once, and to try and sound out dad's position on the mutant issue. Dad brought me along as a treat. He started spouting all this bull about dangerous mutants. Then my dad turned round and said that all the mutants he had met were neither dangerous nor evil, but real people with opinions and a right to live side by side with others. Kelly called him naïve and liberal. My dad then called me over and said that he was the proud father of a mutant, and that mutants were the future. I telekinetically offered my dad and Kelly a drink from a passing waiter's tray." He smiled an evil smile. "I'm afraid that when Kelly refused the drink, my control of the glass kinda slipped and he ended up with about twenty dollars' worth of Dom Perignon on his shirtfront. He's not been invited to one of Kelly's functions since. That was about seven months ago. Dad's not too worried. There's ninety-nine other Senators to worry about now."

Despite themselves, the women smiled.

"He must be quite some character, your father," said Jean.

"Oh, he is," said Marc, his voice brimming with pride. "I grew up in France while he was Junior Ambassador to Madame Perrault, and then Germany under Monsieur Brichard. Then Spain, then China, and now finally the US as senior Ambassador. This is his last post before he retires. Because of all the globe-trotting, I can speak French, German, Spanish, Mandarin and English like a native of any country. I can also manage two or three local dialects for each."

"And after America?"

"He'll return to Canada with Mom. I don't know if he'll get a contractual post for some private company, or if he'll just spend time fishing and reading. He wants me to join the Alpha Flight."

"What's that?"

"It's a group of Canadian mutants that have been employed by the government for security, espionage and intelligence purposes. All mutants registered with the Canadian authorities are entitled to a post in Alpha Flight, from the front line to the desk officers. Any mutant in Canada who registers will automatically be exempt from discrimination. Companies that discriminate are blacklisted in the mutant community, and as we make up approximately 5 of the population, that's one in twenty workers the corporations can't afford to lose."

"And if we had something like that here, then all the mutant problems might just disappear overnight," replied Ororo. "We might see less and less mutants declaring themselves outside of the normal community and suffering the stigma of being X-Factor Positive."

"Well," said Jean, turning off the interstate and onto one of the local roads. "The professor seeks out and tries to recruit as many mutants as possible before they become too deeply entrenched in their parents' political views. The school has a regular curriculum, and alongside it runs the mutant curriculum. Things like Applied Powers, Problem Solving, Piloting, et cetera."

"Piloting?" repeated Marc, not believing his ears.

"Piloting," confirmed Jean. "We have a special jet called Blackbird that Storm, Scott and I can pilot. One other student is taking part in a course to learn how to fly it. His name's Piotr Rasputin, but he's known as either Peter or Colossus. I think you'll be the next person to learn."

"Who's Scott?"

"He's also called Cyclops, and he's the team leader for the X-Men, which is Storm, him and me at the moment, although we're looking at promoting a few of the long-term residents like Bobby into the main body of X-Men."

"And what do the X-Men do?"

"They're like Alpha Flight, but completely unofficial, funded by the Professor," said Ororo, with a warning look at Jean. "The code names are unofficial, too, but in the Danger Room simulations, they're better that people's full names. Peter's called Colossus, because he's able to transform himself into an indestructible form made of organic steel. I'm called Storm, because I can manipulate the weather."

"Why is Scott called Cyclops?"

"His mutation is the ability to fire optic beams from his eyes, and he has to wear a special visor that controls them. It has one long vision bar across his eyes, hence Cyclops."

"I think I remember something about a kid in America who nearly killed a classmate due to red optic blasts from his eyes. My dad showed me something about it when I was about ten. The news was five years old then. They said the kid was about twelve."

"Twelve plus fifteen is twenty-seven, Scott's twenty-six, so I guess they must have got his age wrong on that part. It must be him. Plus I've never heard of anyone else who fires red optic blasts from their eyes," murmured Jean. "Yeah, he attracted a lot of media attention then. They didn't know what a mutant was, and subjected him to batteries of tests. It was only when the Professor got him out of hospital and into the mansion that the press frenzy died down. The Professor designed his ruby-quartz glasses that focus the beams, and now he's able to see again."

"He's also Jean's boyfriend," said Storm, a teasing note in her voice.

Jean turned to glare at the other woman. Storm didn't twitch. "Eyes on the road, Jean, the exit's coming up."

Jean pulled the car around the corner with force. Roaring up Greymalkin Lane, they pulled into an ornate driveway and up the long gravelled drive to the front of the mansion that housed the Institute. Jean cut the engine. At that moment, a telepathic voice spoke.

_Welcome to the Xavier Institute, Marc. My name is Charles Xavier, and we will shortly be meeting in my office. In the meantime, let Ororo show you to your room and unpack. Dinner is at nine. I'll warn you, the students already know that you're arriving, and you'll be introduced to them at dinner._ His 'voice' held a hint of amusement. _It's not everyday that we get a new student._

Marc turned to Storm, who was helping him with his bags. "I suppose that means there's a kind of hazing ceremony?"

_Precisely,_ said Xavier.

"I'm sorry?" said Storm, a quizzical expression on her face. "Oh, that was the Professor. He usually gives a telepathic greeting and warning to the new students. And he's always right."

Walking through the ornate hallway, passing a few people, Marc marvelled at the size of the place. He followed Storm up two flights of stairs, extremely conscious of the whispers and glances that were sent his way by the current students. He tuned into their thoughts.

_Another new student…Cool! Someone new!...Aha! Fresh blood for the prank master of the Institute!_

Marc grinned to himself. Locking onto the last person's thoughts, he responded telepathically.

_You'll be bloody lucky, friend!_

"Oh, my God, another telepath!" said the prank master. He was a tall boy, with blond hair and ice-blue eyes.

"And don't you forget it," said Marc, a broad grin on his face as he passed him. _My name's Marc, Marc Duchaine. Who's this "Prankmaster" I'm supposed to be in fear of?_

Marc could feel his surprise at being directly contacted. _Uh, I'm Bobby, Bobby Drake, but you can call me Iceman. How'd you lock onto me so quick?_

_I'm a telepath, remember?_

_Yeah, but…_

_But nothing._ Marc 'smiled' mentally. _You'll never catch me off-guard, and if you do, you'll end up thinking you're a teeny-bopper schoolgirl. You have been warned._

Bobby grinned. _I think you and I are going to get along just fine._

Dinner was everything Xavier said it would be. After unpacking his clothes and putting them away, putting the posters and hockey stick up and being shown the facilities by Storm, he was famished. Walking down to the large kitchen/dining room, he saw the rest of the school's population gathered for the meal. As he entered the room, every eye turned to follow him as if on cue. Following Storm's lead, he sat down at an empty spot between Bobby and a very tall and well-built guy. The plates were already loaded with food, and as soon as the three adults were seated, everyone began talking and eating.

Bobby started questioning him almost as soon as he sat down. The other guy turned out to be the Russian, Piotr "Peter" Rasputin, and Marc made a point of talking to him. He wished that he'd learnt Russian as well as all the other languages. Bobby seemed surprised that he knew so many languages, and Marc told him about his father being in the Diplomatic Service and his travels, growing up in lots of foreign countries.

"But wasn't that difficult, knowing that you'd never seen your home country?" Bobby, as he scooped up some mashed potato.

"Not really," said Marc, laughing. "I went home in the holidays and spent them with my grandparents. Dad's parents live in Ottawa, and Mom's in Montreal. I know Canada extremely well."

"But you've never seen an ice hockey match?" asked Peter, clearly surprised. "I thought the Canadians lived and breathed ice hockey."

"Well, I didn't used to," explained Marc. "That was before they both became too old to have me for the minimum two week holidays. I follow the Canadian national team results, and I support the Ottawa side."

"But you have yet to see them play," pressed Peter.

"Yes, I still haven't been to one of their games. I have an autographed hockey stick, but that was mail-order from the club's website. That's the one on display in my room. My playing one's just a regular from a sport store in Washington. That's the first place I learnt to skate. Are there any rinks near here where I can learn?"

A wicked gleam came into Bobby's eyes, and he and Peter shared a smile. "Sometimes," said Bobby. "It depends on whether or not the Professor lets me create one. There's a few people here who play, but it's only occasionally because it's a bitch to clear up an acre of ice in the middle of winter."

Marc's eyes narrowed. "You create ice rinks? What kind of power is that?"

Bobby reached out to Marc's glass of Pepsi, held it for a second, then let go. When Marc picked it up, it was freezing.

"Ah. Hence the name Iceman," said Marc dryly.

"I'll ask the professor about creating another rink tomorrow," said Bobby, as dessert was served by some of the students. "It's about time for a new one."

At that moment the Professor entered the room. "Yes, Bobby, you can create a new rink tomorrow, even though it is high summer."

Bobby whooped with delight. Marc was slightly surprised. A completely bald man in an electric wheelchair in a navy-blue suit wheeled himself to the head of the table where Storm, Scott and Jean were sat. His penetrating gaze fell on Marc.

_Not exactly what you were expecting, Marc?_

_Uh, no, sir,_ he responded. _The wheelchair threw me for a second, that's all. I'm sorry._

_That's all right,_ thought the Professor. He cleared his throat, and there was instant silence in the room. Marc saw all eyes focus on the Professor.

"Now, as I'm sure you're aware, we have a new student joining us tonight. His name's Marc Duchaine. Marc, if you'd like to stand up and tell everyone a little bit about yourself?

"Sure," he said, rising to his feet. More than twenty facdes looked at him expectantly, but having grown up in the Diplomatic Service, he was a past master at projecting confidence. "My name's Marc Duchaine, I'm fifteen, born in Ottawa, Canada, and raised in Paris, Berlin, Madrid and Beijing. My father's a senior diplomat in the Canadian Diplomatic Service, which is why I've lived in so many countries. I speak English, French, German, Spanish and Mandarin, all at postgraduate level. I'm also telekinetic, telepathic and metamorphic." He saw a few blank faces among the younger students. "Basically, I speak five languages fluently, I can read minds, move things with thoughts alone, and shapeshift." So saying, he levitated all the unused cutlery from the table and put it away in the proper drawer, pulling the location from Jean's mind. He then ran through a few different forms, including Bobby's and Peter's, giving a demonstration of each power. He finished off with his own body, then bowed, to a polite round of applause. Jean grinned broadly.

"Well, if you can clear the table that quickly, I think we'll keep you," she said.

Marc grinned back, and sketched a bow. "Why, thank you for your kindness," he said. He pushed his chair away from the table, and levitated all the used crockery into the kitchen end of the massive room, piling it all neatly near one of the two large, industrial-grade dishwashers that the kitchen used. The rest of the students piled out of the room, some heading for their rooms, most heading for the recreation room, where a large TV was commandeered by the younger children to watch Cartoon Network. Some of the older children started a game of pool, while others just sat around with books. Jean followed them to supervise.

Marc started loading the dishwashers. Cyclops followed him and stood, watching his methodical movements. His red sunglasses tracked every movement of Marc's.

"That's quite a skills base you have," he said, arms folded. However, you forgot to mention the second grade black belt in karate, and your computer hacking abilities."

Marc slowly straightened up. "Jean warned me I might face a hazing from the students," he responded calmly. "Not from the staff."

Scott barked a laugh. "Not from me, you won't. I'm just saying that you have more than you let the others know just know, and that we know about them, we being the four teachers."

"So when do I get my timetable?"

"Monday. We've paired you up with the student who's joining us tomorrow, who I understand you know."

"John Allerdyce? Yeah, I know him. He's the one guy who talked to me when I started at my school in Washington that didn't seem to be a fundamental Christian and go off on one about God every opportunity he got. He's cool."

"Right. He'll be arriving about 10AM tomorrow morning. If you want to meet him, I suggest you get some sleep. I'll finish here, and see you tomorrow. Breakfast is at eight on a Saturday, and I'd advise you to get here early before the rest of them eat it all."

Marc gratefully left Cyclops to it, and made his way to his new room. Closing the door, he changed into the pyjamas that were laid out on his bed, brushed his teeth, set his alarm then fell into bed and slept the sleep of the just.

**Author's Note - This story will be on hiatus for the next few days at least, as I have two and a half coursework assignments to catch up on. Please review the story and tell me what you think. I will acknowledge any reviews received.**

**-Michael. **


	6. Breakfast and the Blackbird

_**Authors Note: Thank you to the reviewers. I kinda lied when I said this would be on hiatus, but it's 1.03am and I'm a lil bit inebriated XD  
**_

_**Independent Fire: The anonymous feature has now been enabled. Thank you, I didn't know I could do that. :D**_

_**Mrs. Allerdyce: HAHA I wish! I have one novel I'm currently working on which is a completely original idea, but the chances of me ever getting published are slim. This is all for fun. All my first-year exams are within two weeks of each other, so I shall try to get this finished after then.  
**_

_**The Xavier Institute, New York.**_

_**The next day.**_

Marc's alarm went off at seven, and he swiped at it sleepily before he realised it wasn't in its usual place. Sighing, he located it and gave it a telepathic thump to turn it off. He was just about to roll over and go back to sleep when he realised that he wasn't at the embassy. He bolted upright in bed. Taking in the surroundings, he recalled the events of the previous day, and chuckled to himself.

Throwing off the duvet, he made his way to the ensuite bathroom and took a quick shower. As he brushed his hair, he thought of what John would say when he found Marc already at the Institute. Grinning to himself, he quickly pulled on a pair of three-quarter length cargo shorts and a long sleeved hockey top and made his casual way to the kitchen. The aroma of frying bacon and fresh toast made his mouth water.

Entering the kitchen, he saw the two women and Professor Xavier preparing breakfast and discussing the imminent arrival of John. He stood uncertainly in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt.

_No fear of that, Marc,_ said the professor. _With two telepaths, we couldn't miss you._ His mental tone was warm. Marc stepped forward.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.

"Could you lay the table for breakfast?" asked Jean.

"Sure thing, Miss Grey," he said. "How many people are there who have breakfast?"

"Well, there's twenty-three students who attend here, and the four of us, plus Scott," she replied. "Twenty-eight places."

"No problem," he said, and began levitating placemats, crockery and cutlery from their cupboards and drawers and laying them according to what he had been taught by his parents. When Jean turned back a minute later to check and see how he was doing, she found the table laid impeccably. She whistled.

"That was fast," she complimented him. He smiled. "Juice and milk are in the fridges, and the jugs are in the cupboard to your left. After that, it's just the cereal, and I think-" she paused, her head cocked to one side "-Yeah, the rest of the school's awake."

Then Marc felt it, the distant rumble getting nearer and nearer to the kitchen. The door banged open, and a steady stream of teenagers flowed through the door towards the table. Marc had to flatten himself against the wall as the stampede passed him. There appeared to be far too many people for the table, and there seemed to be about five or six clones of the same kid. Reaching out mentally, he found their thoughts were all identical.

"Uh, Miss Grey, there's definitely more than twenty-three here," he said cautiously.

She didn't even turn round. "Jamie, pull yourselves together. If you want five portions, you can cook them yourself. "

The five clones all merged into one small body, and Marc estimated the kid to be eleven or twelve. There were suddenly three seats left over. Marc smiled to himself. Helping Jean to lift the platters of bacon, eggs and toast to the table, he slid into his place next to the boy called Jamie, and began helping himself. The flow of conversation soon settled into an easy babble.

"You're the new kid, aren't you?" asked Jamie, reaching for the toast. It was slightly out of his reach, and Marc 'lifted' the plate nearer him. "Thanks," said Jamie, taking two slices. "I'm Jamie, or Multiple."

Marc returned the plate to the table after snagging two slices for himself. He replied as he started buttering them. "Yeah, I arrived last night. I have a friend who'll be arriving later on today. Does everyone here have an alternative nickname?"

"I think so. We have training exercises, and they're easier to remember, especially if there are more than one person with the same name on the same team. I saw you talking to Iceman and Colossus last night, so you know them. The girl over there at the end is called Kitty Pryde, and she can phase through solid objects. She's also called Shadowcat. The girl next to her is called Jubilee, which is short for Jubilation Lee. She can shoot fireworks from her hands." He went on to identify everyone around the table, including their powers, and Marc filed it all away. His memory was incredibly good, close to photographic. He had no problem memorising names and faces.

Jamie suddenly turned to him. "What's your name?" he asked.

Marc looked confused. "Marc Duchaine," he replied.

"Not your real name, your mutant name," said Jamie, looking at his expectantly.At the continues blank look Jamie sighed. "And everyone says older people are smarter. You need something that sums up your abilities and is easy to pronounce."

Marc was at a total loss. What could he call himself that didn't sound too pretentious?

_I have a suggestion,_ thought Jean. _What about Shift?_

_But that's only half my powers,_ he responded.

_It doesn't have to sum up everything about you, just your major power. And while I have no doubt that you're better at telepathy than shapeshifting, it'll have to be the _visible_ part._

_I'm not too sure about Shift, though. Wasn't that the name of the evil ape in The Chronicles of Narnia?_

Jean mentally applauded. _Ah, someone who's actually read them! I never thought I'd see the day!_

Marc smiled to himself, and said to Jamie, "You'll need to give me a couple of days to find something really fitting, then I'll let you know."

_In the meantime, I want you to go to Washingotn to pick up John Allerdyce. Please ask Ororo to set up the pilot program on the Blackbird for you,_ said the Professor. _I'm sure you can pick it up with no problems._

"The Professor wants to know if you can set up the pilot program on the Blackbird," he said, unsure whether this was some kind of code. He began lifting dishes to the kitchen, where Ororo started putting them in the dishwasher as the students finished their breakfast. They finished putting the dishes away when Jean walked into the kitchen, looking expectantly at the pair of them.

"So, Jean and I are taking you to Washington, are we?" she asked. She walked out of the kitchen, Marc following her.

"I assume so," he said. She led the way to a new corridor that Marc hadn't seen before. Stopping at a blank section of wall, she touched a switch. Marc didn't see anything-

-and then an entire section of the dark wood panelling slid to the side, to reveal a brightly-lit elevator.

Stepping inside, Marc whistled. They had gone from the elegant opulence of the mansion to the sleek utilitarian elevator. Marc guessed correctly that the elevator would take them to the Blackbird. The section of panelling slid back into place, and the elevator started moving. Marc's stomach told him it was downwards.

The elevator smoothly stopped, and without a sound, the door slid back. From what Marc could see, it was a well-lit locker room with suits and jackets made of leather, reinforced with Kevlar. "What is this place?" he asked, looking around eagerly.

"This is the staging area for X-Men missions. In these lockers are our uniforms, and any accessories that we might need. Cyclops, for instance, has a few spare visors that he replaces his glasses with. They can also adjust the intensity of his optic blasts. But that's neither here nor there." She reached into a nearby locker and pulled out a black hooded sweatshirt with the same stylized X's he'd seen yesterday afternoon. Pulling it on and zipping it up, he turned to Storm. She tilted her head to one side. "It'll do for the moment," she said, then turned on her heel and walked to the door at the other end of the locker room. Pulling it open, she advanced into the cavernous black space, and said, "Lights on."

With barely so much as a flicker, six high-intensity halogen floodlights turned on, and Marc gasped. Resting on the smooth poured concrete floor was a jet. Not just any jet, but an extensively modified Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird high-speed reconnaissance jet. Two ramjet engines sat at the rear, hidden behind the graceful lines of the prominent dorsal stabilisers, and the more restrained ventral stabilisers. It rested on three legs, and from the lack of wheels Marc guessed that it was VTOL capable – Vertical Take-Off/Landing. A long stairway ran up to the jet's cockpit under the belly, facing forward, and lights embedded in the steps ignited just a second behind the main hangar floodlights. Marc stared in awe at the jet, as Jean came through the door behind him and nearly ran into him. She grinned at his expression. "Beautiful, isn't she?"

Marc was speechless. _And the Professor wants me to learn how to fly her?_

_Oh, yes. It's not that easy, but it won't take you too long to get the basic hang of the controls. _She shifted back to verbal speech. "The Professor's going to keep all the kids occupied while we leave, Storm," she said. Moving smoothly past Marc, they entered the jet. Marc followed them.

Inside the cockpit, Jean was strapping herself into the pilot's seat, while Storm secured herself to the navigator's chair. These seats had also been modified, making them extremely comfortable. Storm pointed at a chair near a screen and Marc obediently sat down, securing the four-point harness. Resting his arms on the sides, he gave the cabin a long, slow look.

There were eight main chairs in the cockpit, with jump seats for another ten next to the hatchway. The pilot, navigator and three other people on each side all had a considerable amount of leg and elbow room, and each one swivelled, like an office chair. Jean pulled a headset down from an overhead rack and put it on. Storm and Marc followed suit.

There was a slight crackle of electronics, then Jean's voice came over the earphones. "You OK there?"

"Never better," said Marc, his excitement building.

"Good. Hangar doors opening," said Jean. Marc peered out through the viewport. Nothing had changed. Then it hit him. "Vertical take-off and landing," he said.

"Very good," said Storm approvingly. She punched in a long series of keys. "If you look at that screen, you can see a view of the pilot's screen. Familiarise yourself with this, and then we'll go from there." She turned back to her own screen. "Vertical thrusters reporting one hundred percent output."

"Here we go," said Jean, pulling back on a lever. The Jet rose smoothly into the air, the thrusters roaring to lift it off the ground. Rising up through the hangar, sunlight suddenly streamed into the viewports, and Marc caught sight of the mansion. Mentally orienting himself, he realised where the hangar was, and barked a laugh. "The basketball court?"

"Exactly," said Jean with a smug smile. "The Professor's suddenly remembered something that requires everyone to be in the mansion in his office, which is soundproof, and faces the other side of the grounds. We're perfectly safe."

Two hundred miles above New York, an orbiting Lacrosse satellite was just passing over New York City on a course that would take it further up the East Coast and over the North Pole. Its onboard trackers registered the sudden appearance of a warplane, and the cameras began taking photos.

One of these photos was pulled from the National Reconnaissance Office computers by a hacker, legally operating out of a supposedly defunct military base in Alaska.

It was the Department of Defence base tasked with understanding mutants. It had a log name, classified to all but a few people in Washington. It also went under the name of Alkali Lake.

The man took the photo to the base commander, a short, burly firebrand of a man named Colonel William Stryker. He examined the photo at length.

"I know that place," he muttered to himself. "_Xavier's._"


	7. Lockheed and the Mall

**Author's Note: Right, first order of business - In the last review appreciation, when I said Mrs Allerdyce, I actually meant Infernal Flame - Sorry about that!**

**Robbie the Phoenix - Here's the next update, glad you like it!**

**Mark Alan - I'm working, I'm working! XD I've only got one more essay due in, and the date for that was two weeks ago. :D  
**

**Infernal Flame - I'm still waiting for said publisher to come around and say "We want YOUUUUUU!" Doesn't seem likely, however. **

**Thanks to all who reviewed! On with the show!**_**  
**_

_** ----------------------------**_

_**New York to Washington, Aboard the Blackbird.**_

_**That same time.**_

The jet streaked through the sky at nearly Mach Two, just slightly faster than the old Concorde. The time between New York and Washington was negligent. Even so, Marc spent the time learning all about the Blackbird's control and handling characteristics, the take-off and landing procedures, and the threat-warning systems. Once they were at twenty thousand feet, Jean undid her restraints and leant back in her chair. Tapping in a code, she said, "I'll let John know that he needs to b e ready for an instant exit."

There was a soft _brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr._

A familiar voice picked up. "Hello?"

"John Allerdyce? It's Jean Grey. We're en route to get you now, and we need you to be ready in ten minutes time."

_Ask him to meet us at the public park southwest of Arlington. We used to go there a lot. He knows it's secluded, and there's not much chance of him running into the Friends there. _

"On second thoughts," said Jean, with barely a pause, "Meet us at the small park southwest of Arlington Cemetery. We'll be there soon."

"What car do I look for?" asked John.

"It's not a car you look for," said Jean, stifling a laugh. "Just be at the park and we'll take care of the rest."

"Okay," said John dubiously. He seemed unsure. "Whatever."

"See you soon," said Jean, and the connection cut off.

The jet landed in the park, close to a stand of oak trees. Marc could see a few families and couples dotted around the park, but thanks to the psychic "suggestions" both he and Jean were putting out, no-one so much as glanced in their direction. They held the suggestion all the time the Blackbird was on the ground. Marc decided that he would have a little fun. Worming his way into John's mind, he settled into the boy's stream of consciousness. Nudging John's mind, he turned the other boy's head towards where the Blackbird was parked-

-and dropped the mental projections like a stone.

John gasped as his mind suddenly registered the appearance of a sleek black aircraft where there had only been empty space. "Holy freaking God," he muttered to himself in awe, and then stared as a ramp lowered from the belly of the aircraft, and lights embedded in the steps started flashing in a pattern that moved up. A familiar mental voice broke through his staring.

_Stop staring and get a move on! We can't stay here for the rest of the day. If someone sees you in raptures over a two-hundred year old tree, they'll think you're madder than you already are._

"Marc?" he said, even though he knew that there was no way that it could be-

"Get moving!" he called from the ramp. He was leaning forward, his hand wrapped around one of the hydraulic supports.

John picked up his bags and stumbled towards the jet, hampered by the weight in his arms. He felt it suddenly lift up and soar away from him, up the ramp and out of sight. He increased his pace, without the telekinetic Marc helping him along as he had with his bags. Stepping up the ramp, John stopped dead when he saw the interior. He was dragged into a seat by Marc, and he numbly strapped himself in. Taking in the details of the sleek metallic interior and the park outside, he could only sit, frozen.

"So, how's this for a pickup for your new school?" asked Jean, a smile playing on her face.

John didn't say anything, but his expression was reply enough. Ororo grinned.

The jet returned to the mansion and set down in the hangar, again with all of the residents on the other side of the building. Exiting the hangar, they took the circular lift to the mansion's ground floor, and the four occupants stepped out.

_Welcome to the Xavier Institute, John, _said a telepathic voice. _Marc's already stayed here for one night, but I'm going to send Kitty to give you both the tour of the grounds. She'll be along shortly._

Almost as the thought finished, a door opened, and a tall brunette girl stepped into the hallway. She turned to the two boys and smiled.

"Hi, I'm Kitty," she said, gesturing at the pair of them to follow her. The two teachers went towards the kitchen, from where the smell of freshly-brewed coffee was emanating. "We'll start in the Library."

She showed the two new starters the entire mansion, from the shared rooms and bathrooms to the lounge, recreation room and kitchen. The classrooms were seen, and they were running through the corridor connections when Kitty slowed to a halt in front of a massive painting, mounted inside a frame with ornate wooden mouldings. The painting was of a baby dragon, deep purple in colour, with a long tail and wings neatly folded to the sides. It lay in a woven wicker basket with a deep green blanket, with its head curled round and resting alongside the tail, and looked to be peacefully asleep. The name plate mounted on the frame read "Lockheed Sleeps."

"It's beautiful," breathed Marc, staring at awe at the fresh, vibrant colours. He expected to see the little lungs of the dragon expand at any second, so lifelike was the rendering of small details. "Who painted it?"

"Piotr," she said shyly. "He's so good at art and drawing, he offered to paint this for me."

"Where did the name and the idea of Lockheed come from?" asked John, gazing up at the portrait.

"It's a bit of a silly story," said Kitty.

"Well, there's only us around," Marc pointed out.

"Okay," said Kitty. "It started with a really weird dream. You know, like you think you know where you are, but it's somewhere completely different? That's what it was like. I was on another planet, or in another dimension, or maybe both. Anyway, I was taking part in this mad effort to save the world, and then, out of the blue, Lockheed the baby dragon just shows up and starts following me around. All I remember of that dream is that he was there wherever I went, and while he was with me, I never came to any harm. When we won the battle, I got to keep him. When we returned to our own time or dimension, I woke up. But Lockheed stayed so vivid in my mind, I just had to have something to remember him by. Piotr asked me why I kept drawing baby dragons, and I told him about the dream. A month later, I found this hanging on the wall in my room. It was so sweet of him to do that. I kept wondering why he suddenly didn't want to spend time with me anymore. When I found this, I was so happy, I cried. I know it's just a painting, but for him to go to all that trouble for me, it was just… well, you know…" she trailed off, her eyes snapping back to the two boys who were still staring at the painting. "Are you two alright?" she asked.

"Beautiful," Marc repeated, and dragged his gaze away from the painting. Giving John a nudge, they returned their attention to Kitty, who was turning round.

Storm appeared through the doorway nearest them, stopping at the sight of the three youths.

"I've just finished the tour, Ms Munroe," said Kitty.

"Excellent, Kitty. I'm just about to go to Bayville to pick up some groceries. Would you three like to come along? Kitty can show you the Mall and the food court."

"Sounds good, we can see where everything is. Lets go."

They exited the hallway, taking another side door that led through to the spacious garage. A large collection of vehicles were parked there, including an electric blue Mazda, and a van with a wheelchair lift on the back. Ororo moved to a sedate-looking Honda, and the four climbed in. She manoeuvred the car down the long gravelled drive, and out through the ornate metal gates at the end of the drive.

The drive to Bayville took ten minutes. Ororo parked in a car park near the town centre, and they all got out. She looked at them all.

"Right, I expect to see you all back here in an hour's time. Kitty, you're in charge, so make sure you behave yourselves. And remember, no powers. The last thing we want at this time is an attack on mutants by some frightened homo sapiens."

"Sure, Miss Munroe," they said. Kitty quickly led them to the mall, and they were soon wandering through, trying to memorise the locations of all the shops. They made two complete circuits of the floor, then sat down outside the Starbucks branch with a tall latte each to compare notes.

"Well, it's got everything I might need," said John. "Foot Locker, a sports store, hell, there's even a Steve & Barry's!"

"Where's the sports store? I must have missed that," said Marc. "I'm thinking of getting a pair of ice skates, seeing as Bobby's challenged me to a game of hockey. He may be Iceman, but I'm Canadian. We're both born with superhuman ice hockey abilities!"

Kitty made as if to shush him, but it was too late. A group of older teenagers had overheard, and turned to look at the three of them. Marc 'peeked' to see what their disposition to mutants was, and slumped in his seat. "Sorry, Kitty, I should have thought."

"Superhuman abilities?" asked one of the boys threateningly. "Freak mutants. Why don't you just leave humanity alone?"

"Because-" started John, but Marc cut him off with a mental poke.

"I was talking about a friend who calls himself Iceman because he's known how to skate since he was four years old. Not a mutant who has power over ice. Why did you think I was talking about mutants?"

"Because you're hanging out with Pretty Kitty there," said a girl.

Marc acted confused. _Kitty, play along with me. _"What?"

"Don't you know? She goes to that freak Institute outside Bayville. She's usually here with the Chink girl. Looks like she's dropped her for you two."

_The Chink? Does she mean Jubilee?_

Kitty was inwardly seething. _If Storm hadn't have said no powers, I'd have phased her brain out of her head for that, then taken it back for Jubes to fry. _

_As far as I can tell, they don't think you're a mutant, but I'm not going to push this any further. I'm really sorry about this, Kitty. I'll fix it. _He narrowed his eyes at the group in front of him.

"_We're not mutants_," he said, emphasizing the words with mental proddings.

"You're not mutants," replied the group, who all seemed to be in a bit of a daze.

John laughed quietly to himself. "These are not the droids you are looking for," he muttered to Marc. Marc cracked an evil grin.

"These are not the droids we're looking for," said two of the group. He, Kitty and John had all turned back to their coffee, and were just starting to chat again as Marc released his hold on the minds of the group. They looked a bit confused for a moment, but went back to their bitching and sniping, oblivious to the mental tampering of a few moments ago. After a while the three left Starbucks, and met up with Ororo, who had just finished loading the shopping into the car. They all got in, and Ororo looked at them for a moment. She sighed. "What happened?"

"Nothing, Miss Munroe," all three chorused. Exchanging glances, they all started laughing. She shook her head, started the engine, put the car in gear and returned to the Institute.

As they entered, they heard Scott talking to Jean. It sounded like he had just come off the phone.

"…elly's secretary just called – they've had to reschedule the Mutant Affairs Committee meeting for four months' time. Apparently, it's the only possible slot they've got. He sends his apologies."

"Yes, well, his apologies won't cut it if there's another mutant hate crime between now and then. We just have to hope that nothing else happens, and that we get to any mutant that Cerebro finds before any militant homo sapien supremacist does. I'll tear him a new one if something happens." She sounded extremely angry.

"Don't worry, Jean, nothing will happen."

"I hope you're right, Scott, I really do."


	8. New Faces, Old Enemies, and Cake

**The Xavier Institute, New York, NY.**

**Four months later.**

The Mansion had been easy enough to settle into. The curriculum was extremely varied, from the regular subjects, through to the odd subjects, like Automotive Repair, Applied Powers, and the regular training sessions held as team-building exercises. English was taught by Xavier, Maths and Physics by Mr. Summers, Chemistry and Biology by Dr. Grey, and History and Geography by Miss Munroe. The four teachers managed very well with a rolling timetable, and the classes were all tailored to fit the differing age groups. The oldest students at the Institute were eighteen, the youngest, ten. A more varied selection of mutations you couldn't hope to find. The youngest had a blue forked tongue. One of the other youngsters was able to change television channels by thought alone, demonstrating control over electromagnetic and radio waves. Another boy could walk on water. Siryn, one of the girls, emitted a piercing, high-decibel shriek that was used for incapacitating people. Marc got to know them all over the next four months.

John had been watching from the sidelines as Marc and Bobby both skated around the pool at high speed. Bobby looked a little unsettled at just how good a skater Marc was. "What's the matter, Icepop? Annoyed that someone's challenging your area of mastery?" 

Bobby just looked at him.

John held up his hands defensively. "Just saying…" He turned to Marc. "Moving swiftly on… isn't' it your birthday in a few days time?"

"Oh…yeah!" said Marc. "I'd forgotten that. July 25th, four days from now. It's a shame I won't be back at the Embassy for that."

_Marc, do you have a moment?_

_Sure, Professor, what's up?_

_I was wondering if you'd like to invite your parents up to see how you're doing for your birthday. Kitty Pryde's parents are coming from Illinois, and as she has the same birthday as you, I thought we could make something of a party for you both._

_Wow! Yes, please, Professor! Can I call them tonight?_

_Certainly, Marc. Ask them to be here for the early afternoon, as I'm sure you'll want to spend as much time as possible with them. _

As the mental contact faded, both Bobby and John looked at him.

"And just when you think that all is bad, the gods of Fate smile on you," he said, a grin on his face. At their blank expressions, he explained further. "The professor's just contacted me skull-to-skull to let me know I can have my parents up for my birthday, which is also Kitty's birthday! How's that for fortune?"

The other two broke out into broad grins. "That's excellent," said John. "It'll be nice to see them again. They always had a nice word for me."

"What, ratbag?" asked Bobby jokingly. A small stream of fire made its lazy way over, heralded by the click of the lighter. Bobby formed an ice shield and warded it off. They both stopped before one of the teachers could come running to yell at the pair of them.

"But seriously, how cool is that?" asked Bobby. "I just wish that I could get my parents to come here, but that's never gonna happen."

"What, don't they know you're going to Mutant High?" asked Marc. Bobby grimaced.

"They think this is a prep school. I told them it was a prep school that didn't require parental fees, and therefore parental input. They think I'm paying my way through by having a weekend job and helping out."

"Which I suppose is fairly close to the truth," said Marc. "I mean, you're not exactly lazing away the days, are you? And it is prepatory, just not in the way they think." He smiled, marvelling at Bobby's quick thinking. "Come on, I smell food. Let's get there before Jamie snags all the best seats."

The next three days passed quickly, with little in the way of incidents. On the 25th, however, Marc awoke late, to find that his trainers seemed to have been caught in a battle between Bobby and John. They lay in a smoking, steaming heap of burnt fabric and melted rubber just outside the doors. He shifted to a panther, picked up the shoes in his teeth, and tracked them both down. He had discovered this by accident, when trying to shift into Lockheed, and successfully managed it. He had then covertly tried out other animal forms, but only told the professor about this. For the others it would be a surprise. He had also found out that he retained the telepathy when in animal forms.

They were outside, sitting by the pool in the brilliant July sunshine. They failed to notice the giant black cat that was stalking them from the shrubbery. With a snarl, he leapt forward, jumping clear over the two boys and landing three feet in front of them, body tensed, ears flat, snarling. The trainers fell from the big cat's mouth, unnoticed by the two boys in their petrified state. He held the pose, snarling continually for about ten seconds.

_The next time you want to have a fight, leave my trainers out of it!_

"M…M…Marc?" asked Bobby shakily. He had gone sheet-white at the sight of the cat, and was still trying to control his racing heart.

_Of course it's me, you muppet, who else do you know that can shift?_

"That's my point, Marc, no-one can do that. Why didn't you tell us?"

_Must have slipped my mind,_ thought Marc, complacently. He dropped the snarling cat pose, and lay down, and started absently licking a paw. _Relax, I'm not going to hurt you. The looks on your face, though? That's a priceless picture, right there. I just wish I had a camera. _

He shifted back to his usual body, and sat up. He smiled at the other two teens, who were just recovering from the scare of their lives. He pointed to the trainers. "What happened? And why was my alarm turned off?"

"We had a powers fight earlier, I accidentally froze them and John decided that the quickest way to unfreeze them would be to melt the ice. But he didn't stop in time. Miss Munroe's going into Bayville later on to pick up some party supplies, so you could go to Foot Locker and get a new pair."

"Yeah, I'll do that," he said. He stood up, picked up the trainers, and walked round to the kitchen, where he dumped them in the trash. Going to find Miss Munroe, he located her in the Rec Room, supervising the placement of party decorations. A large banner with the words "Happy Birthday Kitty and Marc!" was being levitated into place by Jean. Piotr had armoured up and was holding Jubilee in place so that she could tack the poster into place. Marc lost count of the number of Jamies he saw running around, trailing paper streamers.

"Uh, Miss Munroe, if you're going into town later on, can I come along? It's just that I need to buy a new pair of trainers. Bobby and John destroyed my pair this morning."

"Certainly, Marc. I'll be leaving at ten o'clock. I won't be staying long, though, as Kitty's parents will need picking up from Bayville Train station. I'm meeting them there at eleven, and your parents are arriving at one in the afternoon. They have directions to get here, so there's no need to worry about them."

"Thanks, Miss Munroe, much appreciated," said Marc, and he ambled out, going to his room to find a pair of sandals.

Ororo took him into Bayville, and parked in the same car park as before. As she got out, she gave him the same warning that she had given him previously.

"No powers, Marc," she said. "Regardless of what you told me last time, I know something happened. As there were no mobs forming, I assume you dealt with it, but don't do it again."

Marc nodded. He walked into the mall, and made straight for Foot Locker. He picked out a pair of trainers, and paid for them, all in the space of five minutes. Taking them to the Starbucks, he ordered a tall Americano, and sat down outside, where he laced the trainers and put them on. He sat there, idly flipping through a newspaper when an old man with steel-grey hair sat down at the table next to him. He was joined by a giant of a man who wore a fur coat, made from the skins of what looked like bear, and a short, hunched man whose skin had an odd green tinge to it. An attractive blonde sat down to the right of the old man, and leant back in a confident manner. She was striking in her attractiveness. Had it not been for the fact that they were joined by the green man and the giant, Marc would have written them off as business associates.

What perked his interest, however, is that the old man and the woman both had psychic defences firmly in place.

The other two, however, didn't. Marc took the easy option, and quietly slid into the giant's mind. What he learned shook him to the core.

This was a meeting of Magneto, Sabertooth, Toad, and Mystique. The last name caused Marc's head to snap up, and reappraise the blonde. Marc listened with Sabertooth's ears.

"While I realise that this is not the most covert of meeting areas, the background noise should prevent us from being overheard. Now. Toad, is the machine ready?"

"Nearly, boss. I've just got a few more bugs to work out, then we'll be ready for a test run. Who've you got in mind?"

"Kelly. I've managed to get myself into the gallery for the upcoming debate, and I'll be watching. If that snivelling homo sapien hasn't changed his tune, then we'll go ahead and take him back to the island. What about the other?"

"Up in northern Canada," Sabertooth rumbled. "With another. I'm going to get both tonight. They'll both be on the island in a few days. The other one we can dispose of as and when."

"Good. Mystique?"

"I'll get the aide later, and take his place. This one's gonna be fun." She smiled, a cruel, cold, heartless smile, and Marc knew in that moment that all the stories he'd 'heard' of Mystique were most definitely true. She was completely ruthless.

He returned to the car, to find Ororo waiting for him. "Let's go."

"Miss Munroe? Can you tell me what happened to Mystique after she left?"

"I don't know what happened to her, Marc. All we know is that she took off after the Professor managed to stop Cyclop's blasts from destroying everything. She'd helped him through, but she'd not told him she was blue. It was a bit of a shock, which he handled badly, and she took off. She got revenge on him by sleeping with him, in Jean's form. Why do you ask?"

"Because I've just seen her in the mall with three people who are calling themselves Sabertooth, Toad and Magneto."

There was a squeal of brakes.

After Marc had peeled himself from the windscreen, he turned to face her. Her face was deathly pale, and she was shaking slightly. "Where?"

"In Starbucks, about five minutes ago. They were discussing something about a machine, an island, Senator Kelly, and two people up in Canada."

She fiddled with the air conditioner for a second, and Marc wasn't too surprised to see the panel retract and pop out a comm device like the one on the Blackbird. She held it out to him. "It's voice activated, just speak into it. Say the Professor's name to get a connection.

He took it from her hand, looked it over, then held it to his ear. "Professor Xavier," he said calmly.

There was a soft _brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr._

"Yes, Storm, go ahead," asked the Professor's voice.

"Professor, it's Marc. Miss Munroe's asked me to contact you regarding some people I saw in the Bayville mall." Quickly, he gave a full report to the Professor, leaving out nothing.

"Thank you, Marc. I will have plans ready by the time you return to the Mansion. Oh, your parents are here, by the way, they showed up early. I'm having Kitty show them round, and if I'm not much mistaken…" there was a pause. "They are currently looking at the painting of Lockheed. I'll see you back here with Kitty's parents, all right?"

"No doubt, Professor," said Marc, and hung up. He replaced the device in the slort, and watched as the panel slid down to cover the device.

"Are all the cars kitted out like 007's?" asked Marc. She smiled.

"Only the teacher's ones, I'm afraid," she said.

They reached the Bayville train station ten minutes before the train from New York City pulled in. Kitty's parents had caught an interior flight from Chicago O'Hare to John F. Kennedy Airport, and then a train from NYC to Bayville. They were a smartly-dressed couple, and looked almost exactly like their daughter. They got in after exchanging pleasantries with Ororo and Marc. The drive back was spent with Marc answering questions.

"How long have you been at the Institute, Marc?" asked Mr. Pryde.

"About four months now," he replied. "I came here at the same time as another one of the students, St. John Allerdyce."

"Isn't he the pyrotechnic?" asked Mrs. Pryde.

Marc looked at Ororo. She nodded very slightly.

"Yes, he is," he said, the pause barely noticeable.

_So they know?_

_They requested Charles' help for Katherine. She was phasing through things uncontrollably. More than once they had to retrieve her from a sewer. They know about the true purpose of the Institute, and they wholeheartedly support it._

"And what can you do, Marc? What's your ability?"

"I'm telepathic, telekinetic and metamorphic," he said. At that point, the car rolled through the gates, and stopped at the stone stairs leading up to the entrance. The Professor waited in his wheelchair, the Ambassador and his wife stood behind and to one side. Marc jumped out of the car and raced to his parents. "Mom! Dad!"

"Marc!" they both said, and hugged him. "Happy birthday. We've got your present, but you'll get it later. The Professor would like a word with you before."

"Follow me, Marc," he said, and turned back into the mansion.

_What happened at the Mall?_

_As I told you, sir, there were four people there, Sabertooth, Toad, Magneto, and Mystique. They were talking about some kind of machine that Toad was going to test on Kelly, and two people that were in Canada that Sabertooth was going to collect. At a guess I'd say that Mystique will kill and take the place of Kelly's aide, but when they'll kidnap him I have no idea. Because he's so anti-mutant, he's got a near-permanent guard on him. The only time that that doesn't happen is when he flies. Aside from that, there's nothing else._

Marc noticed that they were heading to the lift that descended to the Hangar. But instead of turning and wheeling off to the hangar, Xavier went to the other end of the hall and stopped in front of a heavy metal door that was sealed shut. A beam of blue light lanced out to the professor's face, conducting a slow retinal scan, and then a heavily processed voice said, "Welcome, Professor." The door slowly slid apart, and Marc followed Xavier into a perfectly round room that featured a platform leading out to the exact centre of the room. Marc looked around and whistled. "What _is_ this?" he asked, awestruck.

Xavier picked up an odd-shaped helmet and put it on. "This is Cerebro. It amplifies and magnifies my telepathy, allowing me to far extend my reach. I'm going to see if I can find these two people that Sabertooth spoke of. Now, don't move."

With that, the room dissolved. The panels disappeared, and were replaced by a holographic representation of the world, edged in white. There were millions, if not billions of tiny white pinpricks of lights, which Marc guessed to be representations of people. Suddenly, about a tenth turned red.

"What are the red ones?" asked Marc.

"Mutants," said Xavier simply.

The map rotated, until Canada was displayed in front of them. The focus sharpened, and the major population centres were discounted.

"He said something about it being Northern Canada, Professor."

The image changed again, this time displaying only the top half of the country. Two red dots in the display caught Marc's attention. "There, Professor, Alberta province. Right in the middle."

"I see it. All right. Now, let us see who they are."

The two dots expanded, taking on corporeal forms through the hologram. One was a young girl, not much older than Marc, the other, a man of indeterminate age. A third red dot was making its way towards them at high speed.

"Well, I think we've found them," said the professor. The map faded, the panels reappeared, and he removed the helmet. Replacing it on the console, he turned and headed for the door. He mentally called Scott and Ororo to his study.

"I've found two new mutants in a place called Laughlin City, in Canada. It's little more than a truck stop with a bar, but Sabertooth is on his way there now. If you can take the Jet and collect them, bring them back. Magneto wants one of them, but until we know which one, we'll take care of both. If you leave now, you can be there by late afternoon. I realise that you'll miss the party, and I deeply apologise, but-"

"We'll get the Jet prepped now, Professor. Save us some cake. Oh, and happy birthday, Marc," called Cyclops as he and Storm went for the elevator.

Marc and the Professor returned downstairs to find the party in full flow. Kitty had already opened her presents, and was now showing off the clothes she had gotten. A pile of wrapped parcels lay on one of the sofas, and everyone looked up as he entered the room. He was immediately besieged by well-wishers who pushed the presents at him. Opening them all, he soon amassed a complete ice-hockey kit, from gloves to pads, to brand-new stick. His profuse thanks were lost amid the noise of horns and party poppers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Blackbird rise from the basketball court, and turn north.

--------------------

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Too soon, it was time for his parents to say goodbye, for they had to attend a social dinner tomorrow and needed to get home early. It was nine p.m. before they left. Marc went to bed feeling extremely happy, and very tired. He worried about his parents on the drive home, but they had a quicker drive than him ahead, as there would be less traffic. The embassy driver pulled slowly out of the gates, and as the headlights disappeared down Greymalkin Lane, Marc watched from the steps.

--------------------

Later on, as he was getting ready for bed, his roommates Bobby and John walked in. They were all dead on their feet, and quickly stripped down to shorts and t-shirts and fell into bed. Marc remembered to set his alarm clock just before he slept. It had been his best birthday to date.

The drive back to the embassy took a little over four hours. The car drove serenely up to the front entrance, and a man took their coats as they went into the building. They failed to notice that they were being watched.

"I don't see the kid," muttered one man to the other.

"Doesn't matter, they're parents of a mutant, so it's just as good," replied the other. "Sos long as they get the message that muties aren't welcome in this country, it doesn't matter who gets hurt in the process. If it's some big-shot Ambassador, well, who's gonna give a shit?"

"I'm still not too sure about this, Graydon, I mean, they're innocent. It should be the kid who gets it, not the parents."

The man called Graydon slowly removed his eyes from the binoculars and stared at his companion. He continued to stare until the smaller man started fidgeting.

"You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"No, Sir!"

"Good. Do it now."

The small man fiddled for a second with a small box, and the calm night was suddenly shattered by the sound of a rocket taking flight. It raced from an unseen launch tube, and lanced into the side of the embassy where the residence's windows were visible. Penetrating through a window, it detonated with massive force and blew out every window in the building. Shockwaves from the blast dissipated down the streets with concussive force, shattering windows in a zigzag pattern as it ricocheted down the streets. Car alarms started going off, in a high-pitched counterpoint to the low explosion. Gouts of flame and smoke now started pouring out of the residence, giving the night sky an eerie glow. Guards and other security personnel started to run out of the building.

"Come on, let's go," said Graydon. "We don't want to be around when the police start hunting. Leave everything and go."

The two men stole away into the night, leaving behind the shattered wreck of the building, after making the first act in a war that nobody knew was occurring.


	9. Diplomatic Discussions

**Author's Note: Hey, I never said they were _killed_ by the bomb... **

**  
Xavier Institute, Westchester, NY**

**The next morning.**

Toast and a hot cup of coffee. People who dreamed of more were, in Marc's morning-person opinion, idiots and fools.

_Well, Marc, it seems as though we got you out of there just in time,_ came the Professor's mental voice, tinged slightly with simmering anger.

_What do you mean?_

_Finish your breakfast and join me in my study._

Jean had picked up on his sudden uneasiness. "Marc, what's wrong?"

"I don't know," he said, a slight edge to his voice. "The Professor wants to see me after breakfast."

Jean's eyes slid slightly out of focus, then snapped back to him after a couple of seconds. "Go, now," she said. "Don't worry about this, the others can clear up for once. They've gotten too used to having a telekinetic or two around,"

Marc left the table and a chorus of complaints in his wake as he made his way to the Professor's study. He was just about to knock when a voice called, "Enter."

Marc grinned to himself as he walked in, but the grin froze when he saw the Professor. More accurately, it was the picture showing on the large television tuned to CNN that was nestled in a large wall unit. The camera angle showed a burning building that was horribly familiar to Marc. The caption below the picture confirmed his worst fears. The Professor clicked the sound on as Marc walked in.

"…-ere are no reported fatalities, but it is understood that three embassy personnel have been airlifted to the nearest hospital, suffering from smoke inhalation, broken bones and shock. The Ambassador is reportedly safe, but his wife, Marie Duchaine, is one of the three people taken to hospital. No word has yet been received on the status of their son, as it was not known if he was in the embassy at the time. However, from preliminary investigations, it appears that the homemade missile was aimed directly at his window."

Marc went cold.

"No-one has yet claimed responsibility for the attack, and Ottawa has responded immediately to this, calling this attack a "cowardly and iniquitous attack on a diplomat of long service and great standing." CCTV tapes have already been removed from the Embassy by the FBI, and are being reviewed as we speak. More on this as it happens. Tom?"

The camera cut to a studio shot of a man wearing a suit seated behind a large glass-topped desk. His face was serious and his voice sombre. "And if you've just joined us, this breaking news story. At approximately five a.m. this morning, the Canadian Embassy in Washington was attacked with what appeared to be a homemade mortar in a terrorist attack, seemingly without motive. The Canadian Ambassador, fifty-one year-old Jacques Duchaine, was inside the embassy at the time of the attack, as was his wife, Marie Duchaine. M. Duchaine is reportedly unharmed, but Mme. Duchaine was airlifted to hospital suffering broken bones and smoke inhalation. We'll have more on this as it occurs. And now, the weather, with Davi-"

The professor clicked the sound off. A different man began gesturing at a large-scale relief map of the United States. "Thoughts?"

"Mom," he said. He didn't need to elaborate.

"They've airlifted her to Bethesda Naval Hospital," said Xavier gently. "She's in the best of hands there. We're going to Washington anyway, as Jean has her appearance in front of Senator Kelly. In the meantime, I want to see if you can shed any light on this."

Marc lurched over to a chair and nearly fell into it. "Ottawa's going to be furious. They've never suffered a terrorist hit on one of their embassies before, and they'll be baying for blood. This was supposed to be a nice, easy retirement post before my Dad leaves the service and writes his memoirs. I need to call him," said Marc, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone.

"Why would whoever it was attack the Embassy?" asked the Professor.

"As far as I know, there wasn't anyone there who would have been under threat."

"Except you."

Marc's thoughts stopped in their tracks. The Professor was right. The news report said that the mortar was targeted on his bedroom window. He was a mutant, and he had revealed himself to three or more Friends of Humanity agents. Of course they would have taken any opportunity to strike at him. And he had been taken out of the embassy for his own protection, and for that his mother was now in hospital… it all made perfect sense. Perfect, awful sense.

Xavier had followed his thoughts. "You cannot accuse the Friends of Humanity outright of any wrongdoing. At the moment, they have no known militaristic operations, and are just a lobbying group on Capitol Hill that enjoy the patronage of Senator Kelly and some other conservative Senators. They are a minor annoyance, nothing more."

"But what if they were the ones behind this attack?" asked Marc, heat in his voice.

"Then the FBI will deal with them."

"Ottawa will want to extradite them and try them as terrorists. The penalties in Canada for terrorism are very severe."

"But America will want to be seen to be tough on them," said Xavier.

"It doesn't matter. Embassies are seen as extensions of the countries they represent. Therefore this was an attack on Canadian territory. America will generate a lot of goodwill if it hands over the people responsible for this."

"Thank you for your time, Marc," said Xavier. "We're leaving tomorrow for the Mutant Affairs Committee debate in Washington tomorrow. We'll take you so that you can visit your mother while Jean battles with Senator Kelly. We'll be leaving in half an hour. You'd best let Bobby and John know where you're going. Also, if you see Kitty or Peter, can you ask them to come to my office?"

"Sure, Professor," said Marc, making his way out of the office.

Outside, he knuckled his eyes, and took a deep breath. He sought out Jean's mind.

_There's been a mortar attack on the Embassy._

_Oh, my God! Are your parents all right?_ Jean's tone was horrified.

_According to the news, Mom's been taken to hospital with smoke inhalation and broken bones. The Professor's bringing me along to Washington so that I can see her. Dad's fine. I think I should try to call them._

He walked into the kitchen at that point. Jean gave no sign that she had heard anything, still supervising the mess that was a weekend breakfast. "Kitty, Peter, the Professor would like to see you after breakfast," he said. They both nodded, and quickly finished. Disappearing together, hand in hand, Marc busied himself with helping Jean and two other kinetics move the dishes to the kitchen.

She left them to it, and went to her rooms. She had a quick shower, leaving her hair down. Slipping into a dark grey business suit, she applied the bare essentials of makeup, complementing her features rather than hiding them. She met the Professor and Marc in the hallway. The Professor was wearing a blue suit, white shirt and tie, and Marc had changed into a pair of trousers and a shirt. He was tapping nervously, and Jean and the Professor shared a thought.

"We'll get there as fast as possible, Marc, don't worry."

Professor Xavier wheeled out of the mansion and down the ramp to the side of the steps. Rolling onto the ramp of the van, he was lifted smoothly of the ground and into the waiting vehicle. Securing the wheelchair in place, the ramp folded away, and Jean and Marc got in. Jean carefully manoeuvred the van out of the grounds, down Greymalkin lane and out onto the main roads. Soon they were on the freeway, making good time.

3


	10. Hospitals and Hearings

**Washington DC, Bethesda Naval Hospital**

**Later that day.**

Jean and the Professor dropped Marc off at the main entrance of Bethesda Naval Hospital, and he went inside, hands deep in his pockets. Military police and nurses hurried around purposefully, and Marc made his way to the reception desk.

"Excuse me," he said. The receptionist looked up, and raised her eyebrow.

"Can ah help yew?"

"Yes, uh, I've come to see Marie Duchaine. She was brought in sometime this morning after the attack on the Embassy?"

"And who are yew?"

"I'm her son."

The receptionist's demeanour suddenly changed, from indolence to attentiveness. She called over a doctor who had been chatting with her colleague.

"Dr. Taylor, ah've got Marc Duchaine here, to see Mrs. Duchaine in th' isolation ward."

Marc stopped breathing. Isolation ward?

The doctor approached, a tall, leggy blonde in a mid-length skirt and blue blouse, covered by a white jacket. She looked him over, then switched into compassionate doctor mode.

"You must be Marc, right? Come with me, I'll take you to her." They began walking down a corridor.

"What did she mean, Isolation ward? How is she?"

"We're using the Isolation ward for your mother because she's then wife of a diplomat, and because of the nature of the attack on the Embassy. She's being cared for by the best staff we have, and we also have the Navy to provide security."

They had reached the ward by this time, and a burly man stepped forward, blocking the way. "The doctor can go through, but I can't let you pass," he rumbled.

"Northstar, this is Marc, her son," said Dr. Taylor. She turned to him. "Northstar came down from Ottawa this morning. He was sent down here by the Government, on secondment from Alpha Flight. He's backing up the Marines and the Navy security."

"I think you mean replacing," he muttered. Marc smiled to himself. Northstar saw. "What, you think this is funny, boy?"

Marc's smile dropped. He extended his mind. Northstar had impressive mental shields, but Marc slipped through them easily, and had a quick peek round. _Listen, Jean-Paul Beaubier, Alpha Flight or not, I'm going in there to see my mother. And nothing you, or anyone else in this hospital, is going to stop me. Let me in._ He folded his arms.

Northstar glared at him. "Neat trick, Marc."

Marc just raised his eyebrow. "You going to let me see my mother?"

"Not yet. I need to see some ID."

Marc's face darkened, and he set his jaw. "You know what my mutant abilities are, Northstar?"

He nodded.

Marc lifted him off his feet with a wave of his hand, and held him against a wall. Walking past him, he opened the door to his mother's room, and stepped inside. Closing the door behind him, he released Northstar, who gently floated to the floor. Marc held the door in place with his mind, preventing a furious Jean-Paul from entering.

There were two people in the room. His mother lay in a bed, wired up to an ECG and blood pressure monitor. Her face was bandaged, and he could see the unnatural bulges on both her legs that signified plaster casts. Her one good eye was blackened. His father was asleep in a chair next to the bed. He was still wearing the slacks and shirt he had worn yesterday, for Marc's birthday. Their hands were linked. Marc just stood there, not wanting to intrude.

His mother had heard the commotion outside, and raised her head as far as she was able to. "Marc?" Her voice was a husky whisper.

"It's me, Mom," he said, and moved to her bedside. He took her other hand in his. There was a cannula attached to her hand, and he moulded his fingers round it.

"Where's Northstar?"

"He's outside, trying to get in. He wouldn't let me see you. I got past him anyway. Just like I'll get whoever did this to you."

"Marc, we don't even know why this happened. They were telling me earlier that the explosion was caused by a homemade mortar aimed at your window. They think that it maybe because you're a mutant."

"Well, the day I left, I did get involved with some kids from school, but none of them would have the brass to do that!"

"It doesn't matter. Your father's been on the phone to Ottawa, and they sent Northstar down here. A team from Alpha Flight is coming down here as well, just to be on the safe side. The FBI's examining evidence, and we'll let you know of anything that happens. Just go back to Xavier's, where you'll be safe."

"But what are Ottawa going to do about this? You know they've never had anything like this happen before!"

"I don't know that at the moment, Marc, and neither does your father. Now, go. Don't worry about me, I'll get better. You concentrate on your schooling, and your powers."

"Thanks, Mom. I love you. Tell Dad I stopped by, will you?"

"I will. Good luck."

Marc left the room, and was stopped by a fuming Jean-Paul Beaubier. "Next time you pull a stunt like that, mister, I'll put you through a wall, and in the bed next to her. The whole point of me being here is to stop people getting in there."

Marc glared at him. "You want to stop me from visiting, fine. I'll get in there anyway. You might as well make the exception now. I will continue to see her, until she's out of there and back on her feet. Try and stop me, and you won't like the consequences."

Beaubier's eyes flashed. He left it, and allowed Marc to walk away. _He'd be a fine prospect for the Alpha Flight,_ he thought.

_And if you think I'm joining that, you've got another think coming!_ Was Marc's parting shot.

--------------------

Jean had just wound up her presentation to the Mutant Affairs Committee, and the screens behind her slowly closed. The final graphic of a strand of DNA faded into darkness. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now beginning to see a new stage in human evolution. These mutations manifest at puberty, and are often triggered by periods of heightened emotional stress."

"Thank you, Miss Grey," called Senator Kelly, from the centre of the chamber. His seat was right next to the open floor, giving him the opportunity to grandstand. "It was… _quite educational._ However it fails to address the issue that is the focus of this hearing, three words, _Are Mutants Dangerous?_"

Jean closed her eyes, mentally preparing herself for the next few minutes. It wasn't going to be pretty, she knew. "I'm afraid that's an unfair question, Senator Kelly. After all, the wrong person behind the wheel of a car can be dangerous."

"Well, we do licence people to drive," he replied, scratching his head.

"Yes, but not to live," said Jean, shaking her head. "Senator, it is a fact that mutants who've come forward and revealed themselves publicly have been met with fear, hostility, even violence."

Kelly was interrupted from his debate by an aide who handed him a piece of paper and whispered in his ear. Jean pretended not to notice.

"It is because of that ever-present hostility that I am urging the Senate to vote against mutant registration." Kelly's aide was still whispering, and Jean finally turned to look at them. "To force mutants to expose themselves will only-"

"Expose themselves?" asked Kelly, interrupting. "What is it the mutant community has to hide, I wonder, that makes them so afraid to identify themselves?"

"I didn't say they were hiding."

"Well let me show you what is being hidden, Miss Grey. I have here a list of names of identified mutants living right here in the United States." He stood up, and triumphantly gestured with some papers. Beginning to pace, he started to look through the papers. Jean just stared, unable to believe what she was seeing. She hadn't been born when the Communism witch-hunts conducted by Senator McCarthy in the 1950's took place but she had read about them in college. This was the scene that had played out, many years ago. She tried to interrupt. "Senator Kelly…"

"Now, here's a… Here's a girl in Illinois who can walk through walls!" His voice was full of self-righteousness as he turned to address Jean. "Now what's to stop her from walking into a bank vault, or into the White House, or into their houses?" He turned to gesture at the public gallery behind him. Jean removed her glasses and tried again.

"Senator Kelly-"

"-And even rumours, Miss Grey, of mutants so powerful they can enter our minds and control our thoughts, taking away our God-given free will. Now, I think the American people deserve to decide whether they want their children to be in school with mutants, to be taught by mutants." Applause had broken out at the Senator's words, and Jean just stood there, unable to say, or do anything. She had never felt this helpless. The applause died down as Kelly turned to face the rest of the Committee, and the gallery.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the truth is, they're very real. And they are among us. We must know who they are, and above all we must know what they can do." The applause was back, this time twice as loud. Kelly stood for a moment, basking in the glory, then returned to his seat.

_Jean, I won't be a moment. I've just spotted an…_ old friend. _I'll be just a minute._

_-------------------- _

At that moment, a truck rolled to a stop in Alberta, Canada. The truck driver and the girl he'd given a lift to exchanged a few words, and then he went to the bar. The girl followed at a slower pace, and sat down on an empty seat. The bar looked to have been set up like an amphitheatre, with a cage in the middle. A man was just getting dragged out by his feet. She wondered where the hell she was.


	11. Information Exchange

**_Author's note: I'm sorry it's taken so long to update, but my exams haven't been kind, and I'll be moving house next week, so there might be another wait. I'm also considering whether or not to keep this in canon for the first two films, and then turn AU afterwards. X3 was a good movie, but there were sooooo many plot holes. Personally, I blame Superman for poaching Bryan Singer. Oh well, not a lot I can do, so enjoy the chapter!_****  
**

**---------------------------------------------------------------**

**Washington to New York**

**Later that day.**

Marc was aimlessly walking the streets. His thoughts were muddled, and he couldn't concentrate. His feet carried him to the shattered shell of the Embassy. The road was cordoned off for half a block in all directions, with visibly-armed police making themselves very visible. He stared at the cordon for what seemed like ages before he was approached by one of the men.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yes, I'd like to know what they did here, and why."

"I can't say, kid," said the police officer. Marc took in the sleeve insignia, showing the man had a sergeant's rank. "It's on the news, and that's all they've told us."

"I'll rephrase," said Marc, coldness in his voice. "That mortar was aimed at my bedroom window. I want to know why, and who did it."

The sergeant's faced changed to a look of surprise. "You're the Duchaine's kid?"

Marc glanced off to the side, reining in his temper with difficulty. "Yes, Sergeant, I am Marc Duchaine, and I'd like to know what happened here."

"Oh, right, yessir, well, as far as we can make out, the mortar went into the embassy window last night, and exploded. Preliminary forensics says that it was a typical mortar, like those used in Ireland during the nineteen-eighties. It started a fire that completely gutted the interior of the Embassy. They found the casing shards, and are trying to trace them. They don't know why the Embassy was attacked. There's no motivation for it, nothing political, or economic about it at all."

"What about other reasons?"

"Like what?"

"What do you know of the family?"

His eyebrows crinkled as he thought. "Well, guy's a diplomat, his wife's a society woman, and you're normal, I guess. There's no reason, unless you got enemies in Canada."

"Thanks," he said, and turned away. Walking down to the end of the block, he muttered, "Normal? Stupid cop."

Inspiration struck. It wasn't really a line of investigation, as things went, but it meant that he would be doing something. He made his way to the school that he had attended before Xavier's. He refined his idea into a more cohesive plan as he went. Reaching the office, he paused. He knew that what he was about to do wasn't _completely_ ethical, but then the Friends of Humanity had attacked his family, and when it came to family…

…well, the rulebook went flying out of the window.

The secretary's mind was laughably easy to slip into. He 'suggested' that she look up the address of Luke Sims, which she did. Reading it through her eyes, he made her erase it from the screen, and then left. Committing it to memory, he walked to the mall and bought a Coke and a sandwich. He ate on the way to Luke's house, his mind clear with purpose as he walked.

Reaching the street, he conducted a quick surface scan of the house his quarry was in, and ascertained that Luke was indeed home. It was a typical house, with a white picket fence and neatly clipped front lawn. Marc made contact with Luke's mind.

_Coward._

He restrained a grin as a yell of fright resounded from the front bedroom in the house. A clatter from the kitchen sounded like his mother had dropped something. A minute or so passed, in which he could hear voices in the house.

_What, scared? You should be. I told you, anything happened and I'd come looking for you. _

"Get out of my head!" yelled Luke. He threw open a widow and looked wildly up and down the street. "Goddamn mutie scu—hkkk…"

_Don't blaspheme, you silly little boy. Anyone would think you're not a right-wing fundamentalist. Now, are you going to stop screaming obscenities?_

Marc felt his terrified assent, and released his mental hold on Luke's speech centre.

_Good. Leave the window open._

Luke disappeared back into the room. Marc was hidden behind a tree. Scanning the branches above him, he leapt up, and swung himself high enough so that he could see the room, but he couldn't be seen by anyone else.

_I bet you're pleased with yourself, Luke_,said Marc. Scorn wound its way through his mental tone. _You've attacked an accredited diplomat in a host country, and soured diplomatic relations for the foreseeable future. And for what? Petty revenge on someone who beat you in a fight? Pathetic. How's the wrist?_

"Permanently damaged, thanks to that trick you pulled. I may never regain full use of it."

_Shame. My mother may never walk again. And it wasn't even her or my father you were after. I think that's fair._

"What do you want?"

Marc's tone turned cold. _The name of the person who did this, and where I can find him._

"I can't."

_Why not?_

"Because then he'll come after me for helping a mutant."

Marc knew that he was dangerously close to the edge of his self-control. For a telepath, especially one trained by a psychic from the Psy-Ops arm of the Strategic Hazard Intervention, Espionage and Logistics Directorate was a very bad place to be. He tried for a cool tone of 'voice'. _One thing I learnt in my psychic training was how to stimulate the brain to feel things. Increasing my empathy, and other people's emotions. I can make you feel exultantly happy, where you're on top of the world, or suicidally depressed, ready to throw yourself off a car park… or put you in screaming pain. I could, if I wanted, make you feel the combined pain of everyone who was injured in that blast. I think the total count was fourteen broken bones, including three different compound fractures on the arms alone, and cuts and scrapes from the flying glass and other debris. Or, you tell me the name and location of the man who did this, and I make you forget that we ever had this conversation. That way, you can honestly say you haven't a clue how I managed to get to him._

Luke said nothing. Marc waited. The silence, both mental and aural, stretched uncomfortably. Thirty seconds passed.

There was a whisper of sound from Luke's open window, and Marc thought he'd misheard.

"Graydon Creed."

---------------------------------------------------

**A/N: Oooh, Dark Marc! but can you blame him? Review, please!**


	12. Facing the Consequences

**Washington D.C., USA**

**Immediately after.**

Marc dropped out of the tree and walked away after erasing the last conversation from Luke's memory. He was about to turn the corner onto the main road when a black Suburban pulled up beside him. The mental voice that came from within was not immediately recognisable, as it was vibrating with suppressed rage and anger.

_Get in!_

He grabbed the door handle and hauled open the door, trusting the people – whoever they were – inside. If they weren't friendly, he could escape.

The tinted windows prevented a lot of sunlight from entering the car, and Marc couldn't see who was inside. The seating configuration was different, with three seats facing backwards, and three in the extreme back of the car facing forward. This looked to be an official car, but for what group, he couldn't tell. He tried to mentally reach out and find out who he was with, but he couldn't.

"Psychic inhibitors, young Marc. Seeing as you can't be trusted not to go round erasing the memories of anyone you don't like." Scorn poured from the voice, a familiar voice that Marc had wanted to hear for so long.

"Martha?"

"That's Mrs. McGuiness to you, boy!" she barked. "Tell me: what gives you the right to go round abusing your powers like that!"

"I-"

"That boy may have had something to do with the attack on the embassy and your parents, but the Police and the FBI deal with this, not you! And threatening to _torture him!_ Are you out of your mind?"

Marc didn't know what to say. This was his teacher, his psychic tutor, se opinion he valued highly. And she looked ready to kill him. Suddenly couldn't justify his actions to her. His head dropped.

"How did you know?"

"I asked for a special surveillance of you, knowing your abilities, in light of the attack. General Fury granted it to me, wisely, it would now seem. Do you have any idea how disappointed in you I am, Marc?"

"Yes," he said, in a small voice.

"It was S.H.I.E.L.D. that requested Alpha Flight involvement, and Northstar's instructions were not to let _anyone_ into your mother's room. Including you. We figured, rightly, that you would go off seeking revenge. And now I listen in to a conversation in which you threaten to torture someone in exchange for the name of a man who cannot be touched at all." She shook her head, aghast.

"When the police find out it was because I'm a mutant, how much interest do you think they'll take then?" asked Marc bitterly.

"This attack was on an _accredited diplomat, _you young fool, not on a mutant. You may have been the target, but it was a diplomat they hurt, not a mutant. As far as the FBI's concerned, it's a diplomatic matter, not a mutant affair. Dr. McCoy form the Mutant Affairs Department will be giving a briefing to the president later on to explain the true nature of this attack. The State department is still waiting for an official response from Canada."

"They'll get that soon enough," said Marc quietly.

"Indeed," she said, still angry.

"What do you mean, can't be touched?" asked Marc, remembering her previous comments.

"Graydon Creed is the leader of the Friends of Humanity, a right-wing human-supremacy group based in Washington. They enjoy the favours of a few Senators, but their power is really very limited. To accuse him of this, now, might undo the work that Dr. Henry McCoy has been doing over the past few years to bring mutant rights to the forefront of political and social debate. And the last thing anyone needs is a rogue sixteen-year-old mutant out for retribution."

"Okay, I get the picture, the _bigger_ picture," said Marc crossly. "But a diplomatic incident won't stop the attacks, the hatred, the prejudice."

"Actually, Marc, you're slightly wrong," said Martha. "S.H.I.E.L.D. believes that if there were to be diplomatic retribution, especially from a nation like Canada, it might get the President to bring the lobbying groups to heel. He can't afford to lose the support of Canada and other nations in the UN, especially on the Security Council. This is being classed as a joint terrorist attack, and diplomatic incident. It gets the best of both worlds. The FBI Counter-Terrorism Unit is using its resources to find out who was behind the attack– it's extremely unlikely that Graydon Creed was behind this attack personally –and the diplomatic pressure will force the President to act in favour of Mutants. It's a win-win situation for you, and mutants in general. And _that _is why I was not about to let you mess the whole thing up."

Marc had followed her reasoning, and had to admit that all the bases had been covered. He sat back.

"Now, Professor Xavier and Jean are looking for you, so I'll drop you off nearby. And remember, _don't interfere_."

She flipped the psychic inhibitors off, and Marc felt his awareness rush back. He immediately felt the contact of the Professor's and Jean's minds, and jumping out of the car, he made his way over to stand by the Professor. His expression was grim.

"Erik was at the Committee meeting in the crowd, and he's definitely planning something. Whatever you did, or didn't do, Marc, I will speak to you about later. We must go. Storm and Cyclops will have brought the other two back from Canada by now. I want to see how they settle in."

The drive back to the mansion was silent. However, a three-way telepathic conversation brought the Professor and Jean up to speed on what Marc had done, and found out.

---

**Ottawa, Canada.**

**That same time.**

"Issue the recall order," said the Secretary of Foreign Affairs. "I want Duchaine and his wife at home and in a proper hospital as soon as possible. Those Americans want to attack the embassy? Lets see how well they respond to the loss of the ambassador."

"Sir, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s been liaising with the FBI and other anti-terrorist officials. I have their preliminary report here," said the deputy, handing the senior man a thin folder. He took it, and quickly scanned the pages inside. "Marc? What the hell…? Oh, that's right, he's gifted. Well, that puts a new face on it, but it doesn't change the course of action."

"Bring the Ambassador home, and let Washington sweat."


	13. Responses

**Ottawa, Canada**

**Later that week.**

Events moved extremely swiftly. The recall order was issued to the Ambassador through the appropriate diplomatic channels, arriving at the substitute Embassy three days after the discussion between the Secretary and his deputy. Jacques Duchaine made his way back to Ottawa by a special diplomatic flight from Andrews Air Force Base, Washington. Marie was flown home on a specially chartered plane that was designed to accommodate a hospital bed and associate nursing staff. She was transferred to the Ottawa General Hospital, where she was placed under armed and mutant guard. Of Marc, there was no official word.

Xavier was as close to furious as he'd ever gotten. Marc was placed under sanctions in the Mansion, and was banned from public excursions for a month. As an additional punishment, he was taking extra Ethics lessons. The point was not lost on him. He knew, in the perfect vision of hindsight, that what he'd done was close to unforgivable.

"If this incident got out, it could seriously damage mutant and human relations for which people like myself and Dr. McCoy have struggled for decades. We, especially I, will _not_ have this work jeopardized by the thoughtless actions of a teenager."

The matter had not been mentioned again, but the decree that Marc be confined to the grounds for the rest of the moth seriously tried his patience. Intellectually, he knew he had been in the wrong, but the walls soon became oppressive. Especially seeing as he couldn't walk into any room without both Bobby and Rogue trying not to make out, or a Canadian wildman by the name of Logan shooting him strange glances. Marc had briefly touched his mind when he had first met the man, but it had been like running into a wall. The man had so many psychic defenses in place that not even his extensive training from both Martha McGuiness and Charles Xavier were able to penetrate them. After a display in the Danger Room of what Wolverine was capable of, Marc finally figured out why the man was such an enigma. Experimentation on mutants was not common, but not a figment of the imagination. With the healing factor that Rogue had absorbed, Marc put the pieces together with the sometimes help of John. What with Bobby spending more and more time with Rogue, John and Marc had reverted to their previous friendship status.

"I mean, why else would they put those blades in him anyway? What other reason? He's got to be some kind of assassin."

"You're talking crap, Marc."

"No, listen. One. He has absolutely no memory up until fifteen years ago. That's gotta be some pretty heavy trauma for the mind to shut down and erase stuff like that. Two. He has a healing factor that makes it damned near impossible to kill him. I mean, he fought Sabertooth and bounced back after a day. For most guys, that'd take about two weeks. Three. The Adamantium claws and skeleton. Again, with his healing factor, it makes it doubly difficult, because he can't break bones. Any pain he feels will end with the regeneration of the nerve cells in his body. No, he was created to be a killer, and the best at that. Four. His heightened senses of taste, smell, hearing."

"Five," came a rumbling voice behind him, oozing menace. "The ability to be undetected by psychics."

Marc and John both froze.

"Six. The ability to smell fear from two loudmouth yapping teenaged boys."

Nobody moved. There was a sound of blades being unsheathed, a perfectly synchronized _SNIKT_ of metal on flesh.

"Seven. The ability to scare said boys juiceless, making sure they never repeat any of this again, within the Wolverine's aforementioned sense of hearing."

There was a slight rustle of shrubbery. Neither boy looked round for ten seconds or so. They finally managed to summon the courage to look round. The shrubbery moved idly in the very faint breeze. There was no sign of Wolverine.

"Note to self," muttered Marc. "Do not discuss said assassins _ever again_. And never get on that man's bad side. And God help the poor bastard that does."

---

_Marc, could you come to my office, please?_

_Certainly, Professor._

Marc was being careful around the Professor now, hoping that good behavior would lead to the restoration of privileges that had been revoked. He was about to knock, when the urbane voice called, "Enter."

_I've called you here as I've just had an extremely interesting conference call between myself, Jean, the State Department, and the Canadian Foreign Affairs Secretary. They plan to release a statement later today that says the attack on the American Embassy was motivated by the fact that you are a mutant. They are going to use this as an excuse to give the President a chance to veto the Mutant Registration Bill if it is voted into law. If he does not, or if it is returned to the House and passed, they will throw open the doors to American mutants in an act of political asylum. It's interesting because the Canadian Government is offering confirmed employment either in Alpha Flight or industry of choice, rather than registration and blacklisting, much like the McCarthy-era Communists. The Canadian Prime Minister is currently in New York for the UN World Summit. He will be making a televised appearance next to the President when the details are announced to put the case forward. _

_Isn't this one of the best things for mutants in decades?_

_I'm not sure. On the one hand, it will provide employment and stability for thousands of mutants, young and old, as well as letting the American people know that this is something that does affect them, when community members start running for the border. However, the Canadian public opinion on this is sharply divided. Most don't mind that this is happening, as it is providing a working solution to a problem in another country, and is scoring political points both at home and abroad. Canada is also able to take the moral high ground in this debate, something which will rankle with the American public. _

"Yeah, I suppose."

"And I think that you have done admirably well in the extra Ethics classes I've assigned you, and that you may be excused from them. I'll also inform the other instructors that you're allowed past the gate now."

"Thank you, Professor," said Marc humbly. "I'll try not to disappoint you again."

"Good. I'll see you at dinner."

"Goodbye, Professor."

---

Bobby had spoken to Marc and John earlier in the day when he couldn't find Rogue. She'd disappeared, and couldn't be found anywhere.

"Hey, guys, have you seen Rogue?" he asked, finding them on the patio. He stood in the doorway of the French doors, nervously bouncing from foot to foot.

"No, not since she's been spending every waking moment with you, Icepop," said John lazily.

All three missed the flash of brown clothing that dissolved in the woods on the edge of the property.

"I can't find her. Kitty hasn't seen her since breakfast, and that's the last time anyone's seen her."

"Come on, Matchstick," said Marc. "Let's go find her so we don't have to put up with the puppy's whimpering."

My _name_," ground out John, "is _Pyro._"

"Oh, come on, you call Bobby Icepop, why can't I call you Matchstick?"

"Because Pyro sounds better."

They started walking through the mansion together, and Marc asked "So when were you going to meet her?"

"I was supposed to meet her for lunch," he replied, as they passed the main staircase. Marc's mental scanning caught a psychic echo, and he zeroed in on it. He slowed his pace. "The Professor…" _Professor, can you confirm that Bobby's standing next to me?_

_He is, Marc. Why do you ask?_

_Because mentally, he's also just headed down to the lower levels._

There was a slight pause.

_It's Mystique. Under no circumstances are you to approach her. She's extremely dangerous. At the moment, I'm not prepared to risk student lives trying to apprehend her, and the adults cannot get to her. Let her go about her business. I'll find out what she wanted here later. _

_But, Professor-!_

_This is non-negotiable, Marc. Nothing will happen. I can personally guarantee that nothing will happen because of Mystique._

"Says you," muttered Marc.


	14. Choosing Sides

**Washington, USA**

**Later that night.**

"…and I'd like take this opportunity to make a special announcement. You will no doubt have heard that one of our Embassies was attacked recently, in a seemingly motiveless crime. However, after diligent and thorough investigation by the FBI and Washington Police, as well as other security organizations, I can now reveal that this attack was motivated by the presence of a post-human in the Embassy. He was not even part of the staff of the embassy, and Ambassador Duchaine and his wife were caught in the attack through sheer bad luck."

There was a rustle in the room, from the forty or so reporters from various networks across the country at the words 'post-human'.

"However, the authorities are still treating this as a terrorist attack, and they will not rest until the perpetrators are brought to justice, either in Canada or America. They will be punished to the full extent of the law.

"My special announcement is for all the post-humans living in America. One was attacked in your country's capital, and it is only through his direct relation to the Canadian Ambassador that his case was so well-publicized. There have been many reports, over the years, of mistreatment, abuse, bullying, threats, and murders of enough post-humans to warrant this decision. And these reports are only the ones that make the papers.

The rustling got slightly louder. The man who spoke paused for a second, and let the room settle down. His next words had been carefully chosen for their provocative impact.

"The press and media have reported that the upcoming UN Summit will be dominated by the, and I quote, 'mutant problem.' As far as most of the world is concerned, there is no problem, save for that which America has made for itself.

"There is also this _despicable_ piece of proposed legislation currently moving through the Senate and House of Representatives to force post-humans to register themselves and their abilities, and where they live. This has happened to certain groups of people in history before. One example that springs instantly to mind: The Jews in the 1930's. However, the resulting Holocaust has become one of Mankind's darkest days. I, as well as many other people have no wish to repeat the mistakes of the past. We would prefer to move forward, learning from the past, instead of ignoring it. This is why the Canadian Government has decided on the following policy."

The reporters and other people in the room were openly staring at him now. They had a fair idea of what was coming, but they were still waiting expectantly, holding their collective breath.

"From midnight tonight, Immigration officials on all points on the Canadian/American border are instructed to give shelter to any American post-human. Any post-human who wishes may apply for work, accommodation, and healthcare. The Canadian system of employment, healthcare and justice does not discriminate on the grounds of genetics. Powers you thought were a curse can be turned into useful gifts, with jobs ranging from public service to private sector applications. Water and fire-based powers can be used in the Emergency services, as can healing and empathic gifts.

"While Canada has no wish to split families up, this offer will also extend to any teenagers and young adults who can make the trip. If you feel that you stand a better chance of life without being bullied, tormented, or shunned because of your genes, we can help you achieve this.

"Thank you for your time. Any questions?"

The shout came from forty different people.

"**_Mr. Prime Minister!"_**

---

"That _son of a bitch!"_ shouted the President. "How the _hell_ did he manage that?"

The White House was in a state of shock at the Canadian Prime Minister's nationally televised address, and had been caught flat-footed and without a response. It was a terribly damaging blow to America's credibility, especially as the host of the World Summit. Now, the emphasis was on damage control and restoring the public's faith in the Administration.

"I want that Bill destroyed. Dead in the water. I don't care what you have to do, I don't care who you have to bribe, blackmail or shut up, I want that Bill stopped. Work mostly on the swing votes, those who aren't sure. Don't bother with people like Kelly or Baines. They'll never change. But get that Bill stopped."

---

"Who's gonna help me? You? Well, so far you've all done a bang-up job!"

Marc was having a late snack in the itchen when he heard the voice of Logan. Peeking round the corner, he saw the gruff Canadian dressed for travel. He was arguing with Miss Munroe about something.

"Then help us." He turned round scornfully. "Fight with us."

"Fight with you, join the 'team', be an X-Man? What the hell do you think you are, you're a _mutant_. The whole world out there is full of people that hate and fear you, and you're wasting your time trying to protect them." He shook his head slightly. "I've got better things to do." He turned and walked away. Pausing, he swung back, and added as an afterthought, "You know, Magneto's right, there's a war coming."

There was a slight pause as Storm tried to predict his question.

"Are you sure you're on the right side?"

"At least I've chosen a side!" she said. He turned, a scornful grimace on his face, and opened the wood-panelled door-

-just in time to come face to face with a heavily-breathing man in an ill-fitting t-shirt and denim jacket. He was pale, sweating and shaking, and his voice was hoarse.

"I'm looking for Doctor Jean Grey," he muttered, before falling heavily into Logan.

It was Senator Kelly, the lead advocate of the Mutant Registration Act.


End file.
